Dancing with Death
by Taaroko
Summary: Buffy/Angel AU, written for IWRY 2016. It's NYC in 1927. Angelus is a private-eye who's trying to make up for his grisly past. It's not the most reliable profession for keeping the bills paid and the icebox stocked with blood, and he's beginning to lose track of how many times he's been dumped in the Hudson with cinder blocks strapped to his feet, but someone has to do it.
1. Chapter I

This fic was inspired by my obsessive love for the film noir/hard-boiled detective genre. And 1920s slang. I hope you have as much fun reading it as I had writing it. I recommend visualizing it as a black-and-white film and reading it in Humphrey Bogart's voice. Also, if you want some noir jazz to listen to while reading, I recommend the soundtrack to the game _L.A. Noire_.

* * *

I

It turns out that when you dethrone the corrupt mayor of New York City, there's no guarantee his successor won't be just as bad. And twice as paranoid.

"Damn, what is this, the fifth time I've found you crawling out of the river?" said Charles Gunn, one of the guards working the graveyard shift in the Slaughterhouse District.

"Fourth," I said, accepting the hand he was holding out to me and letting him pull me to my feet. "Thanks for the tip about Finch's meeting."

Gunn snorted. "That many holes in you, and you're thanking me? Can you even make it back to wherever you go when you vanish into the shadows like this?"

"I'll be fine."

But no matter what I'd told him, making it back to my building before sunrise was a close call that night. After getting shot in the torso at least half a dozen times and dumped in the Hudson in late autumn, you'd think sunrise would be the least of my worries—but then, you probably think I'm human. Luckily for me, Mayor Finch and his goons had thought so too.

I stepped off the wrought iron elevator into my apartment and pulled the Leica camera out of my sodden overcoat. Modern technology never ceases to amaze me, but I can be a little hard on it. That was the first portable camera I'd ever owned, and I'd managed to ruin it inside of a week. There was a puckered hole right through the casing where one of the bullets had struck it before lodging between two of my ribs, but the film seemed to be intact. As long as the photographs developed, I might still be able to salvage something of the night. But that could wait until after I got all the lead out of me.

Removing the bullets was the work of two agonizing hours. I'd been shot on plenty of other occasions, but that was the first time my assailants had used automatic weapons—the less wonderful side of modern technology. The entry wounds were all on my chest and stomach, so they were easy enough to reach. After depositing the last of the seven bloody lead balls in the dish on my coffee table next to a pair of equally bloody forceps, I sewed up the holes. Then I went to my icebox and pulled out the largest bottle of blood inside. Up until the latter half of the Great War, I'd had to hunt animals to keep myself fed, but for the last decade, I'd been able to get what I really craved, neatly packaged in glass, without so much as seeing the donors, let alone harming them. Sometimes I still hunted animals anyway, just to have something warm to sink my fangs into, but even when it was cold, human blood was always the best.

Once I drained the bottle and could feel my injuries beginning to heal, I took a long shower, the water as hot as it could go. The spray soothed my aching muscles, and I stayed under it until it ran cold. I was lucky that Gunn had been the only one to find me after that shootout. It wouldn't have taken much more to finish me off. Gunn and I had been friendly ever since one of my more unusual cases had led me to the cattle tunnel under the river, where I'd helped him and his buddies clear out a nest of vampires. His position as a night guard, paired with his surprisingly intricate network of associates on the streets, had made him a useful source of information on more than one case.

After the shower, it was time to develop those photographs. Mayor Finch might be as dirty as Mayor Wilkins had been—which was probably why Wilkins made him Deputy Mayor in the first place—but he'd learned from his boss's mistakes. He was slippery. I'd been following him for over a month, and last night was the first time I'd caught him doing anything incriminating. He'd gone out to the docks with a small army of guards to meet with known gangsters Tony Papasian and Paul Lenier. The photos might not be solid enough evidence to get him put away, but my contact in the City Council (the wealthy but earnest David Nabbit) was only paying me to provide grounds to impeach him. After that, the police could do the rest.

The Wilkins case had been rough, and I wouldn't have taken another one regarding a dirty politician if the pay hadn't been five times my usual rate. My client for the Wilkins case hadn't been able to pay at all. Being a private investigator isn't always the best way to make rent and keep the icebox stocked with blood, especially when the majority of my cases are supernatural. Doyle, an Irish half-demon I sometimes get drinks with, calls it my self-imposed penance, and he may be right. I have a lot to atone for. It's why I didn't mind taking clients who couldn't pay. If these photographs developed well, though, I wouldn't need to worry about money for another few months.

I'd just gotten the last of them hung up to dry and the negatives stored in my safe when I heard the bell ringing on the door of my office upstairs, followed by the click of heeled shoes. So much for my plans to get some shut-eye now that the sun was up. I threw on a shirt and waistcoat over my freshly bandaged bullet wounds, then did the best I could with my hair, not having a reflection to work with.

The woman pacing my outer office—the woman who was about to offer me the case that would change everything—looked like a typical wealthy socialite wearing a plain, inexpensive overcoat in an effort _not_ to look like a typical wealthy socialite. If she really wanted to avoid drawing attention, she should've left off the pearl necklace and maybe scuffed up her shoes a little.

"Can I help you, ma'am?" I asked.

She jumped and spun around. Sometimes I forget to make noise when I move, so I end up spooking a lot of people. Just one of the many things that make it impossible to forget I'm not one of them. "Oh, my, you startled me!" she said, gloved hand over her heart. "My name is Joyce Summers. Are you Mr. Angelus, the private investigator?"

"Yes, ma'am," I said, suppressing a wince. The name didn't sit well with me. It was the name of a demon whose favorite pastimes included psychological torture and finding creative new ways to murder people—a name that had struck fear and horror into countless hearts from 1753 to 1898. But thanks to a clan of angry Gypsies, it hadn't really applied for the last few decades. I just wasn't sure what to do about that. "What brings you to my office?"

Mrs. Summers wrung her hands and looked nervously around the room. "It's about my daughter."

I gestured her towards the inner office, where I sat down behind the desk and she perched on the very edge of the seat in front of it. "What can you tell me about Miss Summers?" I asked, pulling a notebook and drafting pencil out of the desk drawer.

"She left home last month. Here's a photograph." She pulled one from her purse—just the right size to tuck between the pages of a journal—and slid it across the desk to me. The subject was a girl in her late teens. Possibly very early twenties. She was beautiful, with smooth skin, light hair framing her face in elegant curls, wide eyes looking boldly into the camera, and mouth twitched up in a secretive smile. Across the bottom, someone—likely Mrs. Summers—had written _Elizabeth Anne Summers, 1927_ in a curling script. From the moment I saw that photo, I knew I'd be taking this case, even if it turned out to be nothing.

"How long has she been missing?" I asked—though not because I actually thought Miss Summers to be missing. Mrs. Summers was acting as skittish as a vampire in a cathedral, and clients like that didn't usually like to divulge information. One of the best ways to get it out of them is by asking questions based on false premises.

"She isn't missing," Mrs. Summers said quickly. "She's been working in a bookshop ever since she left, renting one of the apartments above it. I've spoken with her employer, a Mr. Giles. He seems confident in her ability to look after herself."

"And you don't share that confidence," I guessed.

"I'm pleased that she's doing well," said Mrs. Summers, a frown furrowing her brow. "But this wouldn't have been my first choice for her. Last year, she turned down a very eligible offer of marriage from a decorated veteran of the Great War, and now she's abandoned high society to share living quarters with a Jewish girl of no pedigree, under the supervision of a man who felt it appropriate to marry a Gypsy."

I raised an eyebrow. "Is that what has you worried? The company your daughter keeps now that she's left home?"

Mrs. Summers' nostrils flared and she avoided eye contact with me. "No. She's informed me in no uncertain terms that she'll hear nothing against the Gileses or that Rosenberg girl, and that she'd sooner completely sever ties with her father and me than leave them." She took a deep breath and closed her eyes. "I've come to you because I have reason to believe her life could be in danger."

"Why not go to the police? Or a P.I. operating out of a more upscale neighborhood than mine?"

She shifted in her chair. "The threat is not of a kind they are equipped to deal with, even if they took it seriously." She pulled something else out of her purse. A folded sheet of paper. "I've been paying a young man to keep an eye on her. This is what he gave me last night when he came to report to me, along with his notice of resignation." She hesitated, then slid the paper over.

I unfolded it. It was a sketch of what was unmistakably a vampire, fangs and ridged forehead recognizable even though it had been drawn by a none-too-skilled artist. "He told me he saw a few men lurking in the alley next to the bookshop. They had faces like that, and they were talking about how they could get my daughter cornered before the end of the week."

"And you believed him about these men?" I flipped the sketch around. "Have you ever seen anything like this yourself?"

"That's why I came to you," said Mrs. Summers. "The word is that you're the one to see if the problem is of an...unusual nature. I don't want to believe it, but how can I risk my daughter's safety by not at least investigating? My informant seemed genuinely terrified, and why resign when I'd been paying him such a generous amount unless he was telling the truth? Do _you_ think there might be another explanation?"

"I don't," I said bluntly. "The ability to believe creatures like this don't exist is a luxury I haven't had in a very long time. What I'm wondering is how your informant got close enough to eavesdrop on them and then still made it out alive."

"Is that surprising?" said Mrs. Summers, apparently confused. Her heart was beating rather quickly, though it had been doing that for most of our appointment so far.

"Impressive," I said. "Eavesdropping on a gang of vampires isn't a healthy pastime for humans." She flinched on the word "vampires" but otherwise made no objection. "It's probably for the best that he won't be working for you anymore. I can take it from here."

"Then you'll take the case?" she asked, sitting up a little straighter, looking hopeful.

"Certainly. Just tell me where the bookstore is and any other information you think might help me, and I can get started tonight."

She left fifteen minutes later, once we'd gone over more details about Miss Summers' situation and, of course, my fee. I sat back in my chair, listening to the fading sounds of Mrs. Summers' footsteps while mulling over everything she had told me...and a few things she hadn't. I might not have been in the investigative business for long, but I could tell when someone wasn't being completely honest with me.

What had caused Elizabeth Anne Summers to leave her parents' home? Why abandon the life of a wealthy debutante from the Upper East Side to become a shop girl in Hell's Kitchen? Why would a gang of vampires target her in the first place? Did they just see an appetizing dinner prospect, or was there something else going on? And Mrs. Summers hadn't told me anything else about the man she'd had following her daughter. I had a feeling this job would turn out to be more complicated than it looked.

I sighed and glanced over at the calendar on my desk, only to feel a jolt in my gut. It was November 1, 1927. I was two hundred years old.

* * *

This is the first time I've written in first person since a pair of one-shots I wrote eight years ago. I probably won't start doing it all the time, but it was definitely the right choice for this fic. How do you like '20s P.I. Angel so far? If you want to see the sketch I did of him, check out my Deviant Art page.


	2. Chapter II

II

That first evening after Mrs. Summers hired me didn't begin as planned. The sun had just set and I was about to head for Spellbound, the shop in which Miss Summers worked, when Doyle staggered into my office and collapsed. Someone had done quite the number on him. His face was almost unrecognizable beneath a mass of cuts and bruises, his right arm was either broken or dislocated, the rattling sound of his breathing suggested multiple broken ribs, and he was struggling to slow the bleeding of a nasty gut wound by keeping his left hand pressed over it. It was all a bit beyond my ability to treat. Miss Summers would have to wait; she had until the end of the week, but Doyle wouldn't make it through the night. I bandaged the gut wound as tightly as I could, then hoisted him to his feet, threw his uninjured left arm over my shoulders, and bore most of his weight. Luckily, the destination I had in mind was only a couple of blocks away.

"Who did this to you?" I asked as we left the building.

"Gang of demons," said Doyle. "Cornered me on my way back from seeing Cordy."

"Is she okay?"

"They were only after me. They meant to kill me. Damn near succeeded, but I don't think they knew I wasn't human."

"Why did they attack you?"

"I think...Angelus, I think they're working for Cordy's father. After they left me there bleeding, I heard them saying something about Mr. Chase's orders."

We turned down an alley, where we entered an abandoned building with sewer access. "So he finds out his daughter's boyfriend is a broke Irish immigrant and instead of forbidding her from seeing you, he tries to have you killed? With a pack of demon thugs? You should've let me run that background check on the Chase family."

Doyle mumbled something incoherent. I let the subject drop for now. A more thorough interrogation could wait until he was on the mend. The only person in town I would ever trust with my half-demon friend after he'd been beaten nearly to death worked at the Sunset Club, a speakeasy that catered to both human and demon clientele. There were two entrances. You could buy a ticket for the pictures in Starlight Cinema, a real fancy movie palace on top of the club. If you said the right phrases when you bought your ticket, the usher would take you to auditorium 3 and lead you to a staircase hidden behind the screen. That was how the humans got in. I never used that entrance. Demons accessed the club through an abandoned subway line.

Hoisting Doyle a little more securely against my shoulder, I rapped my knuckles on the steel outer door. A slat opened at eye level, and a pair of yellow eyes glared out at me. "Password?"

"Archduke Ferdinand's pocket watch," I said.

"That's last week's password," grunted the door guard. I knew the guy. Big lunk of a vampire named Harvey. I glared at him, letting my features change to match his.

"Don't make me ruin another one of your boss's doors." I ran my hand over it. "I can tell he spent a lot more on this one than the first two."

The slat closed, but a second later, the door swung open. "Don't blame me if he stakes you on sight," said Harvey. "New password's 'Edith's tea and cakes'."

I nodded and moved past him. I heaved Doyle through the little coat room and across the inner threshold (Harvey offering no assistance), and the rich environment of the Sunset Club washed over me. The orange lanterns gave it a sultry atmosphere, particularly when combined with the haze of cigar smoke. A long, polished bar stretched down one side, ending near the stage, which was occupied by a piano, a full brass band, and a lone vocalist. Tonight, the singer was Tara Maclay. I hadn't enjoyed every new style of music to emerge over the decades, but I found jazz uniquely enthralling.

Half the space in the club was taken up by round tables, but the rest was open for dancing. The joint wasn't packed tonight, but at least three-quarters of the tables and barstools were occupied, and there were a few couples on the dance floor. The dominant smells were spirits and smoke, with a smattering of different perfumes and colognes.

Two doors in the wall opposite the bar led to private rooms where patrons could play poker, and a third was the entrance to the Sunset Club's real attraction: the fighting ring. I ignored all three of these doors. The one I was after was tucked in the corner closest to the cinema entrance.

"Angelus!" came a familiar voice from my left before I'd managed to drag Doyle more than a few steps towards our destination.

"Spike," I said. Spike was the owner of the club. Ever since he'd bought the place, he'd kept his hair as black and shiny as an oil slick, dressed in suits that ran towards the finest in mobster chic, and always seemed to be halfway through a cigar. You couldn't exactly call us friends, but we had history. He was an English vampire, only a few decades old, and if you'd told me ten years ago that he'd be running an underground gin joint and boxing ring, I never would've believed it. But then the federal government decided to make alcohol illegal, and alcohol being one of Spike's favorite things, he wasn't going to take that lying down.

"Who's this sorry-looking bloke?" said Spike, blowing a lungful of smoke in Doyle's direction.

"Nice to know how much my loyal patronage is worth," Doyle muttered.

"Oh, the Irish half-breed," said Spike, earning scowls from both Doyle and myself. "Got himself in a bit of a pickle, didn't he?" He seemed more amused than sympathetic, but I wouldn't have expected anything better.

"You could say that. Is Miss Burkle in tonight?"

"Just finished up collecting a few membership fees," said Spike, jerking his head in the direction of the door.

"Thanks," I said, and I continued in that direction.

"Sorry to put you to all this trouble," said Doyle.

"You can apologize once you're not leaving a trail of blood behind you, okay?" I said, pushing the door open. On the other side was an infirmary of sorts. It was very clean and much better lit than the rest of the club, with a few cots along one wall and an assortment of neatly organized medical equipment along the other. The back wall housed not one, but two of those fancy new electric iceboxes. That was where the "membership fees" of the human patrons were stored once extracted. The room was empty except for a very thin brunette in a nurse's uniform, who had her nose buried in a copy of _Scientific Monthly_ and was tapping her foot to the beat of the music in the main room.

"Hey, Fred," I said. "I've got a patient for you."

The brunette looked up from her magazine. On catching sight of Doyle dangling off my shoulder, she leapt up from her chair. "Good Lord, what happened to him?" It had been a few years since Winifred Burkle had left Texas, but you could still hear it in her accent.

"Jumped by demons," I said.

"Lay him down here," said Fred, indicating the nearest cot. I helped Doyle stretch out on it. She started checking his lungs with her stethoscope.

"Is there anything I can do?" I asked.

"That's kind of you to offer, but I'll be just fine. Just go enjoy the club. I'll come find you after I've patched him up."

"Thanks," I said.

When I reentered the main room, Spike was waiting right beside the door. "It's good to see you around here again, mate," he said. "Hell's Kitchen isn't as welcoming to blokes like you and me as it used to be. I thought you might be dust by now."

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"Haven't you heard what's been happening here lately?" he said, looking surprised.

"I've been focusing on a case. Why? What's up?"

His eyes lit up and he leaned closer. "The _Slayer_ moved in. She's taken out a few of my regulars and one of my employees already." He leaned back, puffing on his cigar. "Now, I know _I_ could take her if she came gunning for me, but seeing as how you've never killed a Slayer before, I thought I'd let you know so you could be on your guard."

I cuffed him over the head, causing him to drop the cigar. "How long are you going to keep bringing up China, Spike? It's been twenty-seven years. Don't you have anything a little more recent to brag about?"

He shoved me, picked up the cigar, and straightened his jacket and waistcoat, still grinning that grin that made me want to knock in his teeth. "Weren't you listening?" he said. "There's a Slayer right in my backyard. I'll have something new to brag about in no time."

"Darling," said a voice to our right. It was soft and feminine, but it made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. "Come dance. They're playing our song."

"What are you on about, Dru?" said Spike, turning to face his girl. I didn't move, though my guts got busy twisting themselves into knots. "They can't be playing our song; this is a new set!"

"Nonsense," said Drusilla. "Miss Edith sang it to me last night. Her voice is nothing to Miss Maclay's, though, so we must get a good place on the dance floor before it's all full."

Spike smirked over his shoulder at me before allowing Drusilla to drag him off as the first few notes from the piano and saxophone filtered through the club. I watched them go, feeling both relieved that Drusilla hadn't spoken to me and ashamed of my cowardice. Remember when I said I had a lot to atone for? Well, Drusilla is one of the larger items on that list. If it wasn't for me, she'd probably be an old grandmother by now, happy and peaceful at the end of a long, full, pious life. Instead, she'd spent the last sixty-seven years as an insane vampire who worshipped the monster that destroyed her. I avoided her as much as possible whenever I came to the club.

On the stage, Tara Maclay stepped up to the microphone and began to sing. I let her husky voice distract me from Drusilla and my sins.

 _"Your eyes may be whole but the story I'm told is  
Your heart is as black as night  
Your lips may be sweet such that I can't compete  
But your heart is as black as night."_

I thought about Spike's news. A Slayer in Hell's Kitchen. That could complicate things. I'd spent most of my long life avoiding Slayers, which might still be the healthiest policy for me. She might not care that I was more interested in helping people than hurting them these days. Others certainly didn't. I was going to need more information. Fortunately, one person who might be able to provide it was very close at hand.

 _"I don't know why you came along  
At such a perfect time  
But if I let you hang around  
I'm bound to lose my mind."_

I made my way to the bar and took a seat. "Bourbon, neat," I told the bartender. When she turned and saw me, her face lit up. I smiled too.

"Hey, stranger!" she said. "Haven't seen you in a while."

"It's good to see you, too, Faith."

 _"'Cause your hands may be strong  
But the feeling's all wrong  
Your heart is as black as night."_

"How are things here?" I asked.

"Same old, same old," she said, deftly mixing multiple drinks at once, then sliding them onto a tray, which a waiter promptly carried off. "I've been seeing Spike arguing with Ford a little more often than usual lately, but he and Drusilla have been following all your rules, as far as I can tell. The human fighters don't go up against the demons, customers don't pay the membership fee more than once a month and they only pay it through Fred, and no vamps known to hunt in Hell's Kitchen are allowed in."

"Good," I said.

 _"I don't know why you came along  
At such a perfect time  
But if I let you hang around  
I'm bound to lose my mind."_

I glanced around. No one was paying us any attention. Why would they, with Tara singing? "Ford," I said. "He's that cop they've been bankrolling for the last year, isn't he?"

"Yeah," said Faith. "Seems like he's been wanting a raise for his fine work keeping the heat off this place." She looked at me gravely. "How are things going with your case against Finch?"

I knew why she'd be interested in that subject. After all, she's the one who hired me for the job that ultimately led to a life sentence in prison for Richard Wilkins. Wilkins was Faith's father. Her mother had once been his mistress, and had made the mistake of attempting to blackmail him for it. It was a strategy that tended to work better against men who didn't have numerous ties to the mob and every dirty cop in town living in his pocket. Faith had grown up ignorant of her father's identity, and luckily for her, Wilkins hadn't known he had a daughter when he ordered Gretchen Lehane killed. "I caught him on film shaking hands with some of Wilkins' old friends," I said. "But he spotted me."

Faith raised her eyebrows. "How? You're like a shadow. You must be off your game."

"The man's more paranoid than a cat on its ninth life. He probably would've had the actual shadows riddled with holes too if I hadn't been there." I grimaced. "I did give myself away, though. I wasn't sure the photographs would develop without the flash, so I used it on the last one."

"Well I hope that fat cat who hired you gives you a bonus," said Faith, chuckling.

"You and me both," I said, finally downing the bourbon.

"Wanna place a bet on the fights?" said Faith. "My man's in the ring tonight, and he's undefeated. If you were really my friend, you'd show your support."

"Fine. Twenty on Wood. Who's his opponent?"

"Some new guy. War veteran. Big, blond. Looks like he can handle himself."

There was something different about Faith. Her scent was off. I looked at her more closely. Her skin had a vibrancy to it that I hadn't seen before. It certainly hadn't been there when I was working her case. I couldn't be entirely sure at this stage, but I had a pretty good idea what it meant. "Are you sure you're okay working here?" I asked. "I could see about setting you up someplace a little less infested with demons, at least for the next seven months or so."

She met my gaze, and I knew I'd guessed right. "You've already done enough for me. I'm making my own way now, and I got Robin. We've got a nice place a block away from the school he teaches at—signed a lease for it and everything, and it has a spare room that'll come in handy next summer." A small smile graced her features.

"Should I expect a wedding invitation in the mail soon?"

"I thought you couldn't go inside churches."

"I'd grit my teeth and bear it if I had a good enough reason," I said. "Does Wood need me to give him a little nudge?"

"Nah, he'd haul me off to a chapel tomorrow if I let him."

I decided not to push. With Faith, that usually resulted in her pushing back. You had to let her figure things out for herself. So I changed the subject. "Spike mentioned there was a Slayer in Hell's Kitchen. Heard anything about that?"

"A couple of the demon fighters have gone missing," said Faith. "And I haven't seen a few of my regulars lately. Could be her work."

I glanced around to check for eavesdroppers. "Then it's not you?" I asked carefully. One of the things I'd learned about Faith while working her case was that she was one of the girls in line to become the next Slayer. The only thing that really meant for her in the meantime was that a posh English scholar by the name of Wesley Wyndam-Pryce occasionally dropped by to stick his nose in her business. When he found out Faith had hired a vampire to solve her mother's murder, he first tried to convince her to change her mind, then tried to kill me, and finally petitioned his organization to take over the case. He failed on all three counts, but the third had stung him the most. The Watchers' Council of Britain didn't shell out resources like that on the behalf of murdered family members of mere _potential_ Slayers, especially when the killer was human. The last I'd heard, Wyndam-Pryce was no longer affiliated with them and was roving the five boroughs as a "rogue demon hunter."

Faith's expression hardened a little at my question. "No. But what higher power in its right mind would want me on the front lines? I'd just make a mess of things."

"Don't sell yourself short. You survived the last year, and most of what you have now is down to you, not me. You're a hell of a dame, Faith, and you'd make a hell of a Slayer."

Her lips twitched. "Just for that, your next one's on the house."

* * *

I love the Sunset Club so much. How do you guys like '20s Tara, Spike, Dru, Doyle, Faith, and Fred? Also, the song Tara sings is "Your Heart Is as Black as Night" by Melody Gardot. It should be the third track in the playlist I linked to in the first chapter.


	3. Chapter III

III

I spent a few hours in the club before Fred shooed me out; she wouldn't be happy letting Doyle leave until close to sunrise, so I could come back for him around then. That gave me enough time to start my work on the Summers case. Mrs. Summers' information had indicated that Spellbound was only open until eight, and it was close to eleven when I set out for it. Miss Summers, her roommate, and the Gileses would likely be asleep by the time I got there, but it couldn't hurt to scope the place out and check the surrounding area for vampires.

In daylight, I travel via the sewer and subway tunnels. At night, I take to the rooftops. I've seen Hell's Kitchen from just about every angle. I don't know that I'd call it home, but I've always felt connected to it. We're a well-matched pair, this shadowy city and I. Honest people struggle to make their livings beneath the combined weight of a greedy upper class, a corrupt government, and ruthless crime lords. Most of those honest people have more than enough to worry about without any knowledge of the demonic community living right under their noses. But for all the opposition facing them, they keep going. And if they can do it, then so can I. People like that deserve to have someone fighting for them.

One of those people was Elizabeth Anne Summers. Who, it turned out, was _not_ sleeping peacefully in her apartment. I reached the rooftop of the building that neighbored Spellbound just in time to spot a petite young woman slipping out of one of the darkened second floor windows facing the alley and climbing down the fire escape. A strip of light from the nearest streetlamp briefly illuminated the blond curls peeking out beneath her cloche hat. It was her. Well, if Miss Summers was sneaking through dark alleys at night, then that would certainly explain how she had attracted the attention of a gang of vampires. Not that she wasn't careful. She moved through the shadows like a cat, barely making a sound. But someone other than me had definitely seen her. After she rounded the corner, I leapt down to the alley floor, just as the one pursuing her emerged from his hiding place.

Before he knew what hit him, I had him pinned to the brick wall by the throat. He didn't make a sound, but his eyes went wide, his heart hammered, and fear curled off him like tobacco smoke. "Why are you following Miss Summers?" I growled.

"I could ask you the same thing," he said. Despite the scent of fear, he managed a defiant expression. He plainly thought _I_ was the threat, which meant he wasn't. I released him.

"You're the one her mother hired to keep tabs on her, aren't you?" I asked.

"Yeah," he said, straightening his jacket and cap. "What's it to you?"

"She hired me too. I'm a P.I. Name's Angelus."

"Then she believed me?" He scowled. "She coulda told me that."

"She said you quit working for her after you found out about the vampires."

The kid looked offended. "I didn't quit! They scared the hell out of me, sure, but I ain't about to let no sweet little dame like Miss Summers get killed by honest-to-God _monsters_ if there's anything I can do about it." He spat on the pavement next to him. "When I gave Mrs. Summers that sketch of their faces, she said I was a lying lowlife and she wasn't paying me another red cent. Greedy old bag. Not like she couldn't afford it."

"Why'd she hire you in the first place?" I said.

He shrugged. "My paper route goes past this block, and I grew up in the same tenement as Willow—uh, as Miss Rosenberg, Miss Summers' roommate, so it wouldn't look weird if I was hanging around. Lady asked if I could keep an eye on her daughter. Wasn't gonna turn down a few extra bucks."

My eyes narrowed. "That wasn't it. You're sweet on her. That's why you took the job, and that's why you weren't scared off."

"Yeah, so?" he said, blushing in spite of the attitude.

"What's your name, kid?"

"Xander Harris, but I ain't no kid."

"Well, then, _Mr_. Harris, you see anything else, you let me know," I said. "But leave the actual following to me, or you'll get yourself killed."

"And how am I supposed to find you to deliver all this valuable information?"

"You won't. I'll find you." I left him standing there without another word, heading down the alley after Miss Summers. The door at the far end of the building opened as I passed it, and a slender, dark-haired woman in her early thirties emerged, her arms full of paper sacks of garbage. She was looking over her shoulder when she stepped outside, and she crashed right into me, sending the garbage tumbling to the alley floor, but I steadied her before she could go down too.

"Oh! I'm terribly sorry," she said. She had a hint of a Romanian accent.

"It's nothing." I bent down to help her put all the garbage back in the sacks, then carried them over to the dumpster for her. "Have a good night, ma'am," I said, tipping my hat to her. It was the first time we'd had a chance to get a good look at each other's faces. I guessed that this was Mrs. Giles, the Gypsy Mrs. Summers had so disapproved of when she told me about her daughter's situation. To my surprise, recognition flared in the woman's eyes, followed by fear. She retreated silently into the building, shutting the door without another word.

I stared at the closed door for a few seconds without moving. Had she merely sensed what I was? Plenty of people who had ancestral traditions in magic could identify vampires on sight. That was probably it. Surely it would be too big a coincidence for one of _those_ Gypsies to be right here in my city, involved in my latest case. Still, I had to shake off a sense of uneasiness as I resumed my pursuit of Miss Summers.

Tracking her was harder than I would've expected. Her scent was faint; she was moving quickly. I picked up my own pace and followed the scent for three blocks. Just when it started getting a little stronger, I heard the sounds of a fight, so I broke into a run. I found Miss Summers being attacked by three vampires. Feeling profoundly grateful that I'd decided not to wait another night to scope out her place, I pulled a stake out of my coat pocket and lunged at the nearest of her attackers. He was dust before he noticed I was there, and something white dropped from where his hand had been and landed with a plop on the pavement. I moved on to the next one, but there was no next one. The other two vampires were gone.

Before I could so much as look around to see if they'd dragged Miss Summers off somewhere, something slammed into me from behind, sending me sprawling on the ground. The stake flew out of my hand and clattered away into the shadows. When I rolled over, I found myself pinned, hard, by my quarry. She was glaring at me, and her right hand was clenched around a wooden stake and poised to strike.

I struggled to comprehend what was happening. Based on the stake and what Spike had said earlier, only one thing made sense. The _Slayer_ was my case. She must have killed her other two assailants while I was taking care of the first one. "Is there a problem, miss?" I said.

"Yeah there's a problem," said Miss Summers. "Why were you and your buddies following me? Usually I'm the one doing the hunting."

"Those weren't my buddies. You didn't see me stake one of them?"

She frowned. "I guess I should be thanking you, then. But you _were_ following me."

"You're Elizabeth Anne Summers, correct?" I said, very cautiously reaching a hand into my coat and pulling out my P.I. license for her to see.

"Yes, that's me," she said. She still looked hostile, though it was a different flavor of hostility. I got slowly to my feet. She made no move to stop me, so under cover of retrieving my hat, I picked up the white cloth the first vampire had dropped and straightened the rest of the way up. "Who hired you? My parents or my ex?"

"Your mother," I said, slipping the cloth into my coat pocket, then dusting my hat off and putting it back on. The comment about the ex had me curious. Mrs. Summers had said her daughter had broken off an engagement. The ex had already been on my list of people to investigate if there ended up being more to this than a gang of hungry vampires. But those vampires might just be after her because she was the Slayer. "She believes your life is in danger."

"Mister, my life's been in danger every night since I was seventeen," she said, beginning to turn around as if I was no longer worth her time. "And my mother is well aware of it."

"Because you're the Slayer."

That stopped her in her tracks. She glanced back at me with narrowed eyes. "Now, what kind of P.I. can kill vampires and knows what a Slayer is?"

"The kind who doesn't bury his head in the sand when he's working cases in a city crawling with demons," I said. She seemed to accept that, so I pressed a little further. "Any idea why your mother would suddenly be concerned enough for your safety to hire me if she hasn't before?"

"Not a clue," she said. "I thought my nights would get a lot rougher when I moved to Hell's Kitchen after everything I'd heard about it, but there are actually fewer demons around here than in the Upper East Side. It's quite the life of luxury."

She had the Sunset Club and the rules I was imposing on Spike and Drusilla to thank for that. I pulled out one of my cards. "It's possible we just killed the vampires your mother was worried about, but just in case we didn't, if you notice anything strange...well, stranger than you're used to, drop by or call this number. I just got a private line installed."

She eyed me, head tilted to the side. Her gaze flicked down to my feet, then slowly moved back up to my face before she finally glanced at the card. Her body language changed very abruptly from tense to alluring, and she took a step closer. For better or worse (usually worse), most of the women I meet are very attracted to me, but I make a point of keeping my ego under enough control that I can tell the difference between a woman who wants me and a woman who wants something else and thinks I can get it for her. Miss Summers was the latter, or trying to be. "Well, Mr. Angelus, what if I told you I think you should drop the case before it gets you killed, but I'd like to give you a call if I ever feel like getting a drink? A girl can appreciate the idea of a white knight, even if she's the one better equipped to do the fighting."

"If you _were_ to ask me that, I'd have to answer that you'll need to speak to your mother about dropping the case, not me," I said, smirking at the flash of annoyance she couldn't quite keep out of her eyes as I said it, "and I'd have to remind you that the sale and production of alcohol are currently illegal." I touched the brim of my hat while backing a few steps towards the main street. "Don't let concern for my safety stop you from making contact if anything comes up." I turned and strode away between the tall buildings before she could get in another word, my smirk broadening at the sound of her foot stamping down against the bricks.

* * *

Angel finally meets Buffy! Also Xander, who has a Brooklyn accent because I couldn't help myself. One of my favorite Buffy character traits is how adorably terrible she is at subterfuge. I figured in a noir, that would translate to her being adorably terrible at acting like a femme fatale.


	4. Chapter IV

IV

Fred kept almost the same hours as vampires thanks to her job at the Sunset Club. She was still bright-eyed and bushy-tailed when I returned to retrieve Doyle.

"You haven't been here this whole time, have you?" she chided when I stepped into her infirmary again. Doyle was behind her on the cot. All of his wounds were bandaged and his right arm was in a sling. He was sleeping.

"I left to work on a case," I said. I pulled the cloth out of my pocket and showed it to her. "Three vampires attacked a girl, and one of them was carrying this." I decided it would be better for Fred not to know details about the girl in question. Just because I wasn't worried that Spike or one of his employees might hurt her didn't mean I thought it was a good idea to tell her sensitive information about the Slayer.

Fred took the cloth and frowned. She used one hand to waft the air towards her from the direction of the cloth, then grimaced. "This is chloroform. I suppose the vampire's been reading a lot of cheap fiction if he thought this would actually knock the girl out, but since when do vampires think they need to use a sedative to subdue a victim?"

"You mean chloroform doesn't work?"

"Sure it works, after continuous inhalation over the course of several minutes," Fred snorted. "The fumes from this cloth would barely be strong enough to make her dizzy. But I don't imagine he would've been using it if he didn't expect it to work, which means—"

"They wanted to capture her, not kill her," I finished. "Unconscious, but unharmed."

"Then I guess your case is still open."

"That it is."

†

Doyle tried to insist on going back to his own flat, but I wasn't letting that happen until he was fully healed and I'd dealt with his demon assailants, so I brought him back to my place and helped him get settled on the sofa.

It had been another long night, and I was really looking forward to finally getting some sleep, but I still had work to do. I pulled out my sketchbook and charcoals and went to work drawing the faces of the three vampires from tonight. I only saw the two Miss Summers killed for a couple of seconds, so I didn't have as clear a memory of their faces as the one I dusted myself, but hopefully they would be close enough for the Harris kid to be able to tell if those were the same vampires he saw.

After putting the finishing touches on the third sketch, I left them all on my desk and went to bed. However, it seemed like I'd barely closed my eyes for the day when I snapped awake, the hair prickling on the back of my neck. There was another heartbeat in my apartment besides Doyle's, and it was very close. I leapt up from my bed just in time to avoid the blaze of sunlight that flared across it as the intruder threw the drapes wide open.

"Good morning, Miss Summers," I said politely, edging carefully towards my bedroom door. I was profoundly grateful that she'd chosen a day when I had a guest to attack me, because I didn't normally wear a full set of pajamas to sleep.

"You left a few things out when you told me who you were, Mr. Angelus," she said coolly. She was pointing a crossbow at me. I snatched the book off my bedside table in time to use it as a shield against the first bolt.

"Seemed like the healthier choice at the time," I said.

"Did you think I wouldn't figure out the truth?" she demanded. She wasn't pretending to flirt anymore, she was _angry_. Which made me think maybe the flirting hadn't been _entirely_ to get me to drop her case.

"It would've made things simpler if you hadn't," I said.

"Simpler for doing what? Making me into your next project? Like Natalia Kalderash or Drusilla?" She fired another crossbow bolt as she said it. I still had the book, so she aimed for my leg. I swatted the bolt out of the air with my free hand, but I flinched at her words, the memories flooding over me. Those two names were just the top of a very long list.

"Your mother hired me to make sure you were safe. That's all I want to do."

"When I found out the truth, I thought this P.I. schtick of yours was just a ruse to make me think you weren't with those vampires who attacked me last night, but you've got a sign on the door upstairs and everything. I hope that wasn't all for my benefit."

"Kind of an arrogant assumption, don't you think?"

A crash sounded from the other end of my apartment before she could reply or attack again, and I heard several pairs of clawed feet clicking along my floor. "Doyle!" I breathed, and completely disregarding the angry Slayer standing in front of me, I dropped the book and dashed for my bedroom door, whipping a sword out of its scabbard on the wall in the hallway as I went.

Miss Summers came running after me. "You're not getting away, even if—" She stopped speaking abruptly when I beheaded the first demon to move within range of me. I decided not to waste my advantage against the demons explaining things to her. There were still four that I could see. They appeared to be reptilian, and they had long growths protruding from the backs of their wrists that served as blades. Their eyes glowed green in the dark interior of my apartment, and they were heading for the couch where Doyle lay. He slept like the dead, which was what he was about to become if they got to him before I did.

I threw my sword straight at the one closest to Doyle. It went through its neck, and the creature collapsed with a horrible gurgling noise. The next one came charging for me instead, and I caught it and flung it against the bare brick wall, where several of its bones made a satisfying crunch. Another was going for the couch, so I dove for it and tackled it to the ground. It slashed at me with its claws, but I got my hands around its head and snapped its neck. I looked around for the final demon, only to see it about to pounce on me, when it suddenly went rigid. Miss Summers had retrieved my sword from the second one's throat and run it through the final demon's back.

"What?" she asked when I gaped at her. "We were having a conversation. I don't appreciate interruptions."

"You call breaking into my apartment, trying to fry me with the sun, and shooting me with a crossbow a conversation?"

"We were also talking," she pointed out. "And I feel pretty generous for being willing to do that less than twelve hours after you brought some minions to attack me."

"I told you already, I wasn't with them."

"Really? Is that why you have drawings of them?" she asked, pointing to the desk with the sketches sitting in plain view on top.

"I drew those so that I could ask around and see if anyone recognized them so that I could get more information. Why would I need sketches if I already knew that information myself?" It boded well, though, that she had been able to tell who the subjects of the sketches had been.

"Fine," she said, folding her arms. "Let's say for a second I believe you. What were _these_ demons after?"

"Me," said Doyle, sitting up on the couch with a groan, his hand to the bandages over his stomach. He looked groggily around at me. "I suppose you were right not to let me go home after all. My elderly landlady might be younger than you, but she's not quite so handy with a sword."

"These the same demons who attacked you yesterday?"

"That they are," said Doyle, regarding the nearest corpse with a grimace.

"There are five of them here. Was that how many attacked you?"

"I think so. Counting them wasn't really my priority then, though."

"Any idea if Mr. Chase'll send more?"

"Not a clue, although I suppose when five of his goons never report back, he'll be reasonably confident I'm still alive."

"Wait, Mr. Chase?" said Miss Summers. "As in, the millionaire? Are you saying he ordered a hit with demons?"

"You know him?" I asked.

"He works with my father, and I was in school with his daughter. What's going on here? Mr. Chase has demon goons and the Scourge of Europe is a private detective? Did I trip into an alternate dimension?"

"I suppose it would be difficult to guarantee you didn't," I said. "How did you find out who I am?"

"My Watcher's wife remembers you. You killed her cousin when she was a little girl in Romania."

"Then she should also remember why I'm no longer a threat to humans," I said, masking my shock that Mrs. Giles was indeed of the Kalderash clan. Just my luck. "Her people made sure of that."

"Right," said Miss Summers. "A vampire with a soul, and now you're just trying to be a good citizen, make a decent unliving?"

"That's the long and short of it," I said.

"I'm supposed to believe it's just a coincidence that my mother hired a detective who happens to be a vampire connected to someone I know?"

"You can be as skeptical as you like. I'm still trying to wrap my mind around it myself."

"Who are you?" she said, looking at Doyle. "And why's Mr. Chase trying to have you killed?"

"The name's Allan Francis Doyle," he said. "Chase found out about me and Cordy the other day. I don't think he wants to give us his blessing, do you?" Doyle looked at me. "Angelus, if he's going to all this effort to get rid of me, what do you think he's doing to her?"

"Probably nothing," I said. "My guess is he'll try to convince her you died in an accident."

"Oh, I'm sure, but my Cordy is no fool. She wouldn't believe it without proof, and she'll fight tooth and nail to get that. I have to make sure she's safe."

"You're not going anywhere, Doyle. You couldn't go three rounds against a mild breeze right now, and Chase knows who you are. You need to lay low. I'll see what I can find out."

"How? By lurking around in the shadows?" Miss Summers cut in.

"Well...yeah."

She rolled her eyes. "I know the Chase family. They have even more security than my parents, but they throw fancy parties once a week. If you want to check on Cordelia, the easiest way to do it is to go to the next one."

"Easiest? Those are some of the most exclusive soirées in the city," said Doyle.

"I know." She smirked. "I happen to have a standing invitation." She glanced at me. "The only way you'll get in is if I bring you along. You'll have to put on the ritz for it. Think you can manage that?"

"Five minutes ago you were trying to kill me, and now you want to bring me to some party as your date?"

"Only as far as the other guests will be concerned," she said, slightly more irritably than was necessary, a tinge of red on her cheeks. "Cordelia Chase is...well, not exactly a friend of mine, but I'm not just going to let you go near her unsupervised until I'm sure you're not the real villain here. So consider me your new partner. You can prove to me you really are different from the vampire Mrs. Giles remembers, and I can prove to you and my mother that I don't need help looking after myself."

I looked to Doyle for support, but he only grinned and lay back on the sofa. "I like her. I'd say Cordelia's in good hands."

"When's the next party?" I asked, resigned.

"Day after tomorrow," she said. Then she walked over to the demon whose head I had cut off and picked up the severed head by one of the long, pointy ears. "Mind if I take a souvenir back for Mr. Giles? I've never fought demons like this before."

"Help yourself."

* * *

Fred's lines make me happy in this one. I don't think I've ever really had a chance to write a good rambling Fred explanation before.


	5. Chapter V

V

If Miss Summers thought she was putting me in a bind by giving me less than two days to acquire a suit worthy of a Chase soirée, then she underestimated my upper-class connections. One call to Councilman David Nabbit after I actually finished my day's sleep, and it was all taken care of. That left the evening free to track down Alexander Harris again.

It didn't take long to find him. He was lurking just inside an alley a block away from Spellbound, having a smoke next to a bike laden with canvas bags of newspapers.

"Didn't expect to see you again so quick," he said, dropping the cigarette and grinding it out under his heel. "But maybe I don't wanna be helping you out on account of you being a _vampire_." On the last word, he dramatically whipped a large cross out of his jacket and held it out towards me. He was still a few feet away, so I was able to keep my reaction down to a minor flinch.

"You've learned a lot since last night," I observed.

He looked from me to the cross, then back again, lowering it slightly. "Yeah. I decided I might as well tell Miss Summers everything I know, now that her mom won't pay me and you didn't offer to pay me neither. Turns out she and Willow and everyone else in that damn bookshop already know all about monsters and everything. They gave me this after I told them about you." He shook the cross a little. "Said you was probably working _with_ the vampires I saw and to stay on my toes."

"I'm not. Miss Summers and I killed three vampires last night. These three vampires." I held out the sketches. "Were these the ones you told her mother about?"

"Uh, some of them," he said, clearly blindsided by the fact that I wasn't deviating from my professed purpose from the night before.

"How many did you see?"

"Five, maybe six."

"Well was it five or six?"

"I don't know, man. It was dark and I got the hell outta there as soon as one of them did that freaky thing with his face and started yelling at one of the others."

"That was probably the leader. Was he one of these?" I pointed at the drawings.

Harris squinted at them. "Nah, if anything, these were the ones who seemed most intimidated by him."

"Good to know. I might have more sketches to show you if any other vampires come looking to capture Miss Summers."

"Wait, capture her? They weren't just trying to kill her?"

"Apparently not. Stay sharp, kid."

"I told you, I ain't no kid!" he yelled after me as I disappeared down the alley.

†

I spent the following afternoon in David Nabbit's office, getting fitted for the most expensive suit I'd ever worn in my life by his tailor while he looked through the photographs I'd taken of the Mayor and his unsavory associates. When I told Nabbit over the telephone about how well the photos turned out, he was so pleased that he offered me a favor on top of my commission. Hence the free suit.

Once my new ensemble was in place and the sun had set, I went to Spellbound to meet Miss Summers, but she wasn't on the sales floor when I arrived. The front half of the shop contained a wide assortment of magic paraphernalia, while the walls and back half were nothing but bookshelves. There was a redheaded young woman sitting behind the till, nose buried in a book, and I could hear someone moving around the bookshelves, but otherwise, the shop was deserted. I headed for the till. The redhead didn't look up until I was right in front of the counter. When she did, her eyes went very wide, taking in the suit. "Uh, hi. Y-you must be Buffy's date," she said.

"Yeah," I said, taking off my hat, noting Miss Summers' unusual nickname with interest. "I'm Angelus. Pleased to meet you."

"I'm Willow Rosenberg. Buffy should be down in a few minutes. Mrs. Giles is helping her finish getting ready."

"Mrs. Summers mentioned you," I said. When this made her look decidedly uncomfortable, I added, "And so did Alexander Harris."

She instantly brightened. "You've met Xander?"

"Briefly."

"We've been friends since before I can remember. He comes here all the time, but it's a good thing he's not here right now, because I think he'd be pretty jealous of you taking Buffy to this party."

"I got that impression when I met him." I noticed the ring on her left hand. "You're engaged?"

Her cheeks reddened slightly and she seemed to radiate joy. "Yeah, to Danny Osbourne. You might see him tonight."

"Why would I—wait, doesn't he play saxophone for Johnny and the Dingoes?" They were one of the newer jazz bands that had been gracing stages in both speakeasies and more legitimate venues around the city. The eponymous Johnny Levinson alternated between vocals and playing trumpet, and Danny was famous for his saxophone solos. They hadn't been to the Sunset Club yet, but I knew Spike was interested in booking them.

Her smile became blinding. "Aren't they the bee's knees? I just love hearing them play. This is the first really swanky gig they've had."

I glanced up at the staircase that ran parallel to the counter. I could faintly hear two heartbeats and voices upstairs, but I couldn't make out any words.

"Are you really a vampire?" said Miss Rosenberg.

I blinked, taken aback by the abrupt change in subject. She looked fascinated, not frightened. "Uh, yeah."

"Mrs. Giles told me all about the curse her family put on you. Is it as awful as it sounds?"

"Willow, have you finished sorting through the new inventory?" said a British-accented voice from behind me, sparing me the necessity of answering such an awkward question.

"Oh, right," said Willow, setting her book down and scurrying off towards a back room. The other speaker took her place behind the till. He wore glasses and looked to be in his mid-forties.

"Mr. Giles, I presume?" I said.

"Indeed. It won't surprise you to hear that I'm not at all comfortable with this little reconnaissance mission of Miss Summers' and yours," he said.

"I'm not thrilled about it myself, but you're her Watcher. You couldn't tell her to call it off?"

"Dissuading Miss Summers from her chosen course of action is an exercise in futility, I'm afraid. I wasn't particularly happy with her plan to storm your flat and slay you after Janna explained your history with her people, but off she went anyway."

His tone was one of mild exasperation, but it could not have been plainer that the man felt a great deal of affection for his charge. That could make him a very valuable asset. "Did she tell you her mother hired me to investigate a group of vampires planning to attack her?" I asked.

"She did. _Joyce Summers_ , hiring a private investigator to look into a supernatural threat," he said incredulously. "Three years into her daughter's tenure as the Slayer, she's actually admitting that such things are possible? I'd like to know what brought her round."

"Whatever it is, I think she might know more than she told me."

"Such as?"

"I don't know yet, but a lot of things aren't adding up here. Why has she been paying the Harris kid to tell her anything unusual he notices around Miss Summers? Why lie to me about why she's no longer paying him? Why not tell me upfront that Miss Summers is the Slayer if she wanted me for my supernatural expertise?"

He frowned. "So you're wondering whether she hired you because this is the first time she's been aware of any details about her daughter's enemies and she's frightened, or because she somehow knows something significant about _these_ vampires?"

"Exactly. And if the latter, how did someone who's been willfully ignorant of the supernatural for so long find out about the threat before anyone else did?"

"You say she hired Mr. Harris to keep her informed?"

"Yeah."

"That could simply have been her way of maintaining some control after Buffy left home."

"I haven't ruled out that possibility, but it seems a little fishy."

"Quite. And it's not all that does." He narrowed his eyes. "I've read everything that's ever been written about you. Of course, none of it is dated after 1898, so I wouldn't have known what to expect of your behavior after Janna's people cursed you. I'm willing to offer you the benefit of the doubt, but it's hanging by a very thin thread."

"Understood," I said. I didn't resent him for this attitude. I was grateful for any benefit of the doubt, no matter how thin. "Have you had a chance to identify that demon head?"

"No, but I'll let you know when I find out, seeing as it was your friend they were after. I've eliminated quite a few possibilities, but I've no shortage of books still to check."

"I appreciate it."

There was a creak of hinges as the door at the top of the stairs behind the counter opened. I looked up and felt my mouth go dry. Miss Summers was standing in the threshold, being helped into her coat by Mrs. Giles, which gave me a couple seconds' glimpse of the dress she wore. If 1920's fashion has a flaw, it's how straight the lines are on women's clothing. Everyone seems dead set on hiding feminine curves all of a sudden, instead of exaggerating them with corsets like they've done since before I was born. But if there was a woman who could convince me the change hadn't been a terrible one, it was Elizabeth Anne Summers. The dress was knee-length, faded turquoise with a sheer overlay of delicate gold embroidery that came down to points several inches below the hemline of the main layer. She wore a matching headband that emphasized her short curls, dangly pearl earrings, and long strings of pearls draping down to about level with her navel.

Luckily for me, Mr. Giles had turned around at the sound of the door opening, so nobody saw me gaping at Miss Summers like a green schoolboy. And the effort it had taken me to dress like someone from the Chases' tier of society paid off the moment Miss Summers looked around and saw me. "Miss Summers," I said.

"Mr. Angelus."

I smirked, put my hat back on, and gestured towards the door. "Shall we?"

†

The Chase family lived in one of those new penthouse apartments on Park Avenue. Thanks to the invention of the elevator, rich people now had the option of distancing themselves vertically from the grime of city life, not just horizontally with big country mansions out of town. Miss Summers and I were granted entrance to the private elevator by an attendant on the ground floor of the Chase's building. I worried the invitation rule might have me stuck outside the apartment, but Mrs. Chase was welcoming guests before they reached the elegant double-doors.

"Elizabeth, dear!" she cried when she spotted Miss Summers, pulling her in to bump cheeks and make loud kissing noises. I watched Miss Summers tense slightly and plaster on a false smile in response. "I haven't seen you since all that to-do over your broken engagement. Amelia Kendall told me you were working in a bookshop now? I didn't believe a word of it. But who is this?" Mrs. Chase gave me one of the least subtle lustful glances I'd ever received. "I must say, young man, if you're the reason she broke things off with Sergeant Finn, then I wouldn't blame her at all."

"This is George Carter," said Miss Summers. "He just moved here from California. He's a film producer, and he's here to poach singing actresses from Broadway now that his films use sound."

Mrs. Chase's eyes lit up in excitement. "Oh! Were you at all involved in making _The Jazz Singer_? I must've seen it ten times now. I thought the pictures were exciting before, but this is just incredible. And if you're looking for actresses, you'll find no one better than my Cordelia."

At this point, Miss Summers was overcome by a coughing fit. "I'm sure I won't. I'd be delighted to meet her," I told Mrs. Chase, flashing her my most charming smile.

She giggled coquettishly. "Well as much as I'd like to keep you all to myself, I should let you and Elizabeth enjoy the party. Go on in; just follow the music. Cordelia's in there somewhere."

When the doors opened for us, we were hit by the sounds and smells of opulence. The penthouse was decorated like a palace, with marble floors covered in intricate rugs, exotic plants and centuries-old statues and vases in every corner, enormous portraits and mirrors in gilt frames on the walls, and sparkling crystal chandeliers lighting each room.

The party was equally lavish. We'd arrived late enough that most other guests were already there. Several were milling about in the Chases' parlor, chatting, smoking, and enjoying cocktails mixed from the family's bottomless pre-Prohibition stash of alcoholic beverages, but most were out on the enormous veranda, dancing, laughing, and drinking. Silk streamers draped from the upper level of the roof to the lower edge, each holding a number of paper lanterns, giving the whole scene an ethereal glow. White-jacketed waiters carrying trays of delicate appetizers and drink glasses wove through the crowd with impressive skill, even though there were numerous refreshment tables around the edges of the veranda. Johnny and the Dingoes played from the permanent stage built at one end of the roof, and the dance floor was packed with couples.

As impressive as it all was, I was already looking forward to getting back to my quiet, Spartan apartment where I could savor a glass of blood while I mulled over the case. Highly energetic crowds are not the most comfortable settings for a vampire who doesn't prey on humans. I felt like an alcoholic locked in a wine cellar.

The saxophonist gave Miss Summers a nod when we walked past the stage, and she nodded back. We continued to wend our way through the crowd.

"So I'm George Carter now?" I said. Miss Summers shot me a sour look. "I would've appreciated you consulting me on the details of my fake identity before introducing me to someone, but considering Miss Chase's interest in acting, it could be useful."

"Is she really in love with Doyle? The Cordelia Chase I knew never would've looked twice at any man who didn't have pockets at least as deep as her father's."

"I've never met her," I said. "All I know is Doyle is crazy about her, and if he's not exaggerating, it's mutual. They've been courting in secret for at least a few months."

Miss Summers nodded absently, frowning.

"See Miss Chase anywhere?"

"Not yet." Miss Summers' eyes widened as she glanced towards the opposite end of the veranda from the band, and her jaw muscles clenched.

"What is it?" I asked, not turning around.

"My father is here," she said through gritted teeth. "With his mistress."

I looked over and saw a cluster of people wearing expressions of varying degrees of haughtiness. I recognized Mr. Chase and Mr. Bryce from newspaper photos on the business pages. Among them was a brown-haired man about my height and Mrs. Summers' age, a cigar in one hand and the other arm around the waist of the woman beside him. She wasn't much younger than him, but that was clearly something she was trying to disguise. She wore a flapper-style ensemble more daring than most of the ladies Miss Summers' age, her auburn hair was cut in a severe bob, and her makeup was very heavy and dark. The effect was undeniably seductive, but somewhat lacking in dignity.

"I'm guessing you'd rather avoid them?"

Miss Summers grimaced. "As much as I don't feel like giving my father a chance to _act_ like a father if he can't be bothered to act like a husband, and as much as I want to sock Catherine on the jaw, we'd actually draw more attention if we _didn't_ talk to them at least once."

A man cheats on his wife and his daughter is the one considered rude if she refuses to talk to him. Apparently that was what passed for civility and class among the upper crust. We approached Mr. Summers and this Catherine woman. He was the first one to notice us. His eyes widened in surprise at the sight of his daughter, then narrowed as they traveled onto me, sizing me up.

"Hello, Father," said Miss Summers.

"Elizabeth," he said, eyes back on her. He smiled, but it was stiff and didn't reach his eyes. "And who do we have here?"

Miss Summers' smile was even more forced. "Mr. Carter, meet my father, Henry Summers. Father, this is George Carter. He's a Hollywood film producer."

"Fascinating!" said Catherine loudly, as though Miss Summers had not just deliberately failed to introduce her to me. I noticed that her grip on Mr. Summers' arm seemed rather tight. "That must be an exciting business to work in."

"It has its advantages," I said.

"How's Mother doing?" said Miss Summers, just as loudly as Catherine, whom she had not so much as glanced at yet, and who was not enjoying being ignored.

Mr. Summers' smile vanished entirely at the question. "As well as can be expected for a woman who hasn't seen her daughter in over a month."

I saw rage spark in Miss Summers' eyes and decided it was a good time to put the pleasantries to an end, especially because they were starting to attract the attention of Mr. Chase and his other associates. "Miss Summers, would you care to dance?" I asked.

"Yes, thank you," she said. She didn't even hesitate to place her hand firmly in mine and allow me to lead her away to the dance floor as the band struck up a song with a Charleston beat.

Dancing was a pastime I normally avoided, but what I lacked in practice I made up for in vampire reflexes. The Charleston was somewhat reminiscent of Irish dances I learned growing up—though much slower. With her right hand in my left, my right on her lower back, and her left on my shoulder, we tapped out the first measure and joined in with the other couples on the next down beat.

"I can't believe he had the nerve to try to make _me_ feel guilty about Mother when he's here in public with that woman," she said, seething.

"I'm sorry you had to speak to him because of my case," I said.

"It was going to happen sooner or later."

"It's a shame your mother doesn't approve of the Gileses or Miss Rosenberg," I said, hoping to get her mind off her father. "They seem like wonderful people."

She gave me a careful glance as we went through the steps, like she was trying to puzzle out my motives for such a comment. "They are."

Her anger seemed to be dissipating somewhat. I tried to use the dance to further lighten the mood. I added pressure against her hand, indicating an upcoming spin. She followed through seamlessly, and there was a glimmer of challenge in her eyes when she faced me again. "So how exactly does one go from Elizabeth to Buffy?" I asked.

"Who told you I go by Buffy?"

"Miss Rosenberg mentioned it while I was waiting for you to come downstairs."

Miss Summers relaxed a little and shrugged. "My parents called me Betty when I was little, but I couldn't get my tongue around the 't' sound, so it came out more like Buffy when I said it. Now it's what my friends and my mother call me." She looked at me sharply. "But that doesn't mean _you_ get to use it."

"I wouldn't dream of it, Miss Summers," I said wryly. I switched the way I was holding her hand, indicating another spin. This one sent her out the full length of both our arms, and I gave an extra tug as I pulled her back in so that she nearly collided with my chest.

Without missing a step, her eyes narrowed slightly and her lips pulled up in a smirk. "While we're on the subject, isn't it a little odd for someone who's trying to prove he's _not_ the same vampire he was before he got his soul back to keep going by the same name?"

It was my turn to shrug. "Perhaps, but you go by one name for a century and a half, it becomes difficult to imagine any other group of syllables applying to you."

"Then maybe you don't need to change it entirely. Just tweak it. You could be...Angelo, or something."

I wrinkled my nose. "That would make me seem like an Italian gangster."

"Still a step up from infamous evil vampire."

"It would be difficult to step lower than that, but true."

The teasing gleam faded from her eyes for a second or two, and she moved a little closer as we continued the dance. "Well, I'll just have to keep thinking of different options for you until we find one you like."

I couldn't help thinking that she could call me whatever she wanted to, as long as she kept referring to the two of us as "we."

"Well if it isn't Betty Summers," said a snide voice. Miss Summers' jaw clenched again. The speaker was a blonde flapper with a dull meanness in her blue eyes. She demonstrated another of the baffling innovations of 1920s fashion with her hairstyle. Unlike Miss Summers' soft, voluminous curls, hers were plastered to the sides of her head like a bizarre, lumpy helmet, and the result was rigid enough that it would likely offer her as much protection as an actual helmet.

"Harmony," said Miss Summers. She gave no indication that this interruption was worth stopping the dance, so I was happy to continue. This forced the intruder to sort of bob along next to us to avoid being swept aside by other dancing couples.

"I thought you ran off to some poor neighborhood to be a shopgirl after you were dumped."

"I'm the one who broke it off, not him," said Miss Summers tersely. "And I moved to Hell's Kitchen to get away from dumb Dora socialites like you." She flashed a sparkling smile.

Harmony huffed indignantly. I decided to make my presence known. "If you'll excuse us, miss, we were in the middle of a dance."

She cast me a look much like the one Mrs. Chase had. "Sure, mister, but when you're ready to trade up for a better partner, feel free to come find me." She batted her eyelashes, then sashayed off towards a gaggle of similarly vapid-looking young women.

"Taking her up on that offer might be the fastest way to get information," said Miss Summers. "Harmony Kendall can't keep a secret to save her life." There was just a hint of bitterness in her tone. I suspected that Miss Kendall and her ilk had made Miss Summers feel like an outcast among them. In that alleyway and in my apartment, she had been confident and fiery, but not so here.

"I don't think I can do that," I said. I spun her again, so that this time she ended up dancing with her back to me. I leaned down so that I could speak into her ear. "There's no trading up on a partner like you."

By the end of the measure, we were face-to-face again. She stared at me with wide eyes. "I still haven't decided whether or not I should stake you," she said warningly.

"I know."

"And I'm not sure whether that kind of smooth talking is helping or hurting your chances."

"I like to play the odds."

"That so? Do you play the odds with all your cases?"

"Only the ones that really capture my interest."

She broke eye contact then, but her cheeks had grown very rosy and there was a hint of a reluctant smile on her lips.

"Oh, there's Cordelia!" she said. The song happened to be in its closing chords as she said it, so I brought her into a dip—I would have preferred a waltz for this particular move; with the Charleston, the girl just sort of tucks down over her own feet and the man's only job is to keep her from wobbling—, after which we broke apart.

Cordelia Chase was among the gaggle of girls Miss Kendall had joined over by where the drinks were being served. She was laughing along with them, but she definitely had an air of tension about her, and out of the four of them, she was the one who looked the least like a dress shop mannequin.

"You talk to her," said Miss Summers. "I'll make sure you don't get interrupted." She veered off to get a drink while I approached the group of young ladies.

"Miss Chase!" I said jovially. She and her friends stopped giggling and looked around. She was the only one who didn't rake her eyes up and down my expensive suit before breaking out in fresh giggles. "I'm George Carter. I produce films in Hollywood. Your mother mentioned you might be interested in acting?"

"And how!" said Miss Chase, going from suspicious to eager in a split second. "Ginny, Harmony, Aura, go find dance partners. I need to discuss my impending stardom with Mr. Carter." The other three girls left at once, still giggling.

"Sorry for the ruse," I said. "I'm not from Hollywood." I produced one of my cards from my jacket. "I'm a friend of Doyle's. He wanted to make sure you were okay."

Her hand shot past the card I was holding out to her to seize my arm in a grip I doubted I'd have been able to break out of, as strong as I was. "Daddy told me he died in an automobile accident," she said. "I didn't want to believe it, but—"

"Don't. He's fine. He's hurt pretty bad, but he's lying low in my apartment while he recovers."

"Recovers?" she said. "Then there _was_ an accident?"

"It was no accident."

Her eyes went wide.

"Miss Chase, how much do you know about Doyle? About his _background_?"

She glanced around nervously. "I've known about his demon half for a few months, if that's what you mean."

"And how much do you know about that world?"

"Not a whole lot. There were a few strange things that happened while I was in school, and that Bet—Buffy Summers always seemed to be involved with them, but until I met Doyle, I didn't really want to know more about any of it. What happened to him?"

"He was attacked by a pack of demons."

"Oh, God. And you think they targeted him on purpose?"

"I know they did. And it was on your father's orders."

"I think I need to sit down," she said, putting a hand to her head. She did look pale. We moved over to one of the sofas around the edges of the floor. Miss Summers followed us over and offered her the drink she hadn't touched. She accepted it and tossed it back in one gulp. "I know Daddy hasn't always done the most honest things to succeed in his business, but demons? How can you be sure?"

"Doyle overheard them talking after they left him for dead."

Miss Chase looked at Miss Summers, who had taken a seat on the sofa about a foot away from her. "What's your involvement in all this? Your father is friends with mine; is he part of the conspiracy to murder my boyfriend?"

"No," said Miss Summers. "I never wanted to come back, but I'm here because it's sort of my job to fight demons."

"But only bad ones, right? Because Doyle might sometimes be green and spiky, but he's a good guy, and I love him. You wouldn't do...whatever it is you do to him, would you?"

Miss Summers flashed me an annoyed look. "Anything else you weren't telling me to 'keep things simple'?" she muttered.

"Nothing comes to mind," I said mildly. "Doyle's half-demon, yeah, but brachen demons are peaceful."

"Can I see him?" Miss Chase asked, her attention back on me.

"No," I said. "But you can make an appointment to audition with George Carter's film studio."

"What? I can't think about my acting career at a time like this!"

"Cordelia," said Miss Summers. "The film studio isn't real."

"Oh. _Ohh_. Yes, absolutely. I'd love to make an appointment."

"You have to make sure your father believes that's what it's about," I said.

"I will," she said. "I've been to auditions before. He won't suspect a thing."

I glanced around. The party was proceeding normally, and I almost turned back, but I noticed that Catherine was staring directly at Miss Summers. If looks could kill...

"Miss Summers," I said, "I believe we have what we came for. It's up to you whether we stay or not."

"Not," she said firmly, getting to her feet.

"Miss Chase, call the number on the card I gave you to set up that appointment," I said. "Make sure you come alone."

"Thank you," she said. Miss Summers and I made our way through the opposite side of the crowd from where Mr. Summers and Catherine were standing.

The band was between songs when we passed the stage. I stepped to the side to have a word with the saxophonist. "You Danny Osbourne?" I asked. He was short, though not as short as Johnny, and unlike a lot of short guys, he didn't seem like he felt the need to make up for his height with aggressiveness.

"Guilty," he said.

"Would you mind keeping an eye on Miss Chase for the rest of the evening?"

"Sure, if you give me a reason."

"Her father's involved in some shady dealings. I want to make sure she doesn't get caught up in it."

He looked from me to Miss Summers, who was watching the crowd, then began fiddling with some of the knobs on his instrument. "You're the P.I. vampire who might be a good guy. Willow told me about you. I'm kinda curious to see how things go. I'll keep an eye out for you."

"Thanks," I said, passing him another of my cards under cover of a handshake.

* * *

I have another drawing for you! This one is of Buffy and Angel in their fancy duds. It's also on my Deviant Art page (where I have the same username as here). I wish this website wouldn't block anything resembling links. We're not all trying to fill the site with spam!

I made Jonathan the singer of Oz's band in this universe solely based on his performance in "Superstar," because it was glorious. Also, in case it was confusing, I'll explain my reasoning behind Buffy's name. Strangers call her Miss Summers. Adults who are being condescending call her Elizabeth. Peers who are being condescending call her Betty. Only people she likes are allowed to call her Buffy. As to Angel, I feel like the Angel of the '20s wasn't as full of self-loathing as the Angel of the '90s, so he's a bit more confident about flirting with Buffy.

Who wants to help me bring "the bee's knees" back into common usage? Anyone?


	6. Chapter VI

To the anonymous reviewer from chapter five, thank you! I typically don't like first person stories either, but you can't really do noir properly without a first-person narrator. I'm really glad I'm doing it well enough for you to make an exception! :)

Also, if the anonymous reviewer who left a review on "Worlds Apart" a couple days ago is reading my other stuff, please PM me on Ao3 or something. (I have the same username over there.) That was one of the sweetest reviews anyone's ever left me, and that there's no way to reply to it is driving me nuts!

* * *

VI

Miss Summers and I left the building without any complications. She seemed much more relaxed when we reached the street than she had at the penthouse. She took a deep breath when we stepped out the doors, as though she was finally tasting fresh air, then turned to me and said, "If you don't mind, I think I'd prefer walking to getting a taxi."

"Not at all," I said. We walked in silence down the sidewalk for a minute. Uncharacteristically, I was the first to break it. "May I ask you a question?"

"Depends on the question."

"What made you want to leave that life behind?"

She shrugged a little and pulled her coat closer around her. "What was it like existing before you had your soul?"

I frowned. Maybe it was a reckless thing to do with someone who might still decide to drive a wooden stake through my heart, but I decided to be honest with her. "I wasn't so much a person as a collection of appetites that could never be sated, held together by whatever was left of the man I was as a human," I said. "I can see now how empty I was, but at the time, I was blind to it. I was convinced that I could make it all worthwhile by turning simple kills into masterpieces, but the satisfaction was fleeting, even when it earned me a reputation for being one of the most sadistic vampires in history."

"Being wealthy is a lot like that—though presumably minus the blood and murder. It's all so fake and hollow. We put on our fancy clothes, strut around like peacocks, and try to see who can throw the most expensive parties. It's as if the prerequisite to having everything is caring about nothing. I used to be that way, but then I became the Slayer."

I chuckled. "There's nothing like nightly life-or-death battles to cure you of your ennui, huh?"

"There really isn't. But everyone around me—my parents, my friends, my fiancé—they acted like _I_ was the one living the wrong way, just for having the audacity to give a damn."

"Then why wait nearly three years to get out?"

"Fear and habit, I suppose. My parents found out I was the Slayer after the first year. They probably would've tried to have me committed if they hadn't witnessed me fight off a pair of demons first-hand. Instead they just pretended nothing was happening. The final straw came when I told my fiancé. He'd seen a few demons while he was fighting in the war, so I thought he'd understand. I was wrong. He told me I had to choose between him and slaying. As if this is something I volunteered for and could just stop whenever I felt like it. I chose slaying. My parents were on his side. We got into a huge fight over it. Father stormed out, and Mother shouted that me fighting monsters was why he wasn't faithful to her. He couldn't control me, so he had to find a different way to stay in control. She thought he would stop once I was out of the house. So I told her I didn't need to get married to accomplish that, and I left."

"That's why you wanted me to drop the case, even before you knew what I was. You think she only hired me because she can't accept that you're happier where you are now, particularly when your father is still cheating on her."

"Are you saying that _isn't_ the reason?"

"It might well be _part_ of the reason, but the woman who came to my office was far more frightened than she was bitter. And frankly, I'd rather assume there's something to it and be proven wrong than drop the case and read your obituary in next week's paper."

"In that case, I suppose it wouldn't do any good if I made another attempt at persuading you to drop it," she said, glancing sideways at me with a sly little smile.

"Not a chance," I said. I'd never wanted to kiss a girl as badly as I wanted to kiss Miss Summers right then, and I was nearly positive she would let me do it.

So, of course, that was when we were attacked by vampires.

Five of them sprang on us as we walked past a narrow alley. They probably thought we were just a pair of party-goers looking for somewhere cozy to finish up our evening, which explained why we were each able to take one out with the stakes hidden inside our coat sleeves. We rounded on the other three. I went for the one on the right. In a matter of seconds, I had him by the collar, my stake raised again, and the one Miss Summers had attacked was flat on his stomach on the pavement.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, I think we were paid in wooden nickels, boys," said the last one, who was backing away from us, his hands up in front of him.

"What's that supposed to mean?" said Miss Summers, keeping her vampire pinned with a heeled shoe to the back of his neck. "Did someone send you after us?"

"No! Nothing like that," he said, but there was an edge of panic in his tone. "We was just looking for an easy meal."

Miss Summers and I exchanged a glance, then simultaneously staked the two vampires we had subdued, lunged for the last one, and slammed him against the brick wall of the alley. He was large and brawny, but no match for both of us at once. Up close, I saw that he had a partially healed shiner and his nose and ears were misshapen in a way characteristic of repeated blows to the head. I realized that I'd seen him before. He was one of the fighters in Spike's demon boxing ring, though not one of the better ones , which was why I was having trouble remembering his name. It might've been Dirk.

"Tell us more about those wooden nickels, because I think you're lying to us," I growled.

His eyes darted from me to Miss Summers and back. "You're Angelus, ain't you?"

"That's right."

He looked like he might wet himself. My bad reputation was not without its perks. "Look, me and my boys didn't mean to get in your way, I swear, we was just paid to snatch the girl."

"'The girl' is standing right in front of you with a stake to your chest," said Miss Summers through gritted teeth.

He reluctantly looked at her. "Our job was to grab you on the way out of that party. You was supposed to be barely conscious by the time you hit the street," he looked back to me, "and _you_ was supposed to be just some Joe who'd be easy to kill."

"Who hired you and where were you supposed to take me?" she asked.

"We never met the person who hired us, we only picked up our cash and our orders at the Sunset Club."

"Fine, but someone must have actually spoken to you about a job the first time you were hired," I said.

"Whoever it was only talked to my sire, but he disappeared as soon as the rest of us knew how we was gonna get our information. I figure our mystery boss staked old Lenny so no one would be able to rat him out."

Damn, this guy was good at covering his tracks.

"Where were you supposed to take me?" Miss Summers asked again.

"Once we had you tied up real good, we was supposed to take you to some alley off 49th between 5th and 6th. There was going to be a car waiting. The driver was going to flash the lights three times when he saw us, and then we was supposed to toss you in the back and go back to the club to get the rest of the cash."

Miss Summers shot me another glance, eyebrows raised. I nodded. She drove the stake home, and the vampire screamed as he turned to dust. "Looks like you were right about the case."

†

Dirk had left me with a lot of questions and not enough leads to answer them. Had the person who hired the crew of vampires to capture Miss Summers been able to set up that ambush because he knew she was going to be at that specific party tonight, or was it merely a contingency plan in the event that she started attending Chase parties again? How was someone so good at keeping his movements hidden even from his own goons so bad at laying traps that could actually hold a Slayer? Most importantly, were they actually after the Slayer, or were they after Elizabeth Anne Summers?

As for the leads, there was the car the vampires were supposed to take Miss Summers to and there was the Sunset Club. The car was a long shot, but the club I could definitely work with. The trouble was making sure Miss Summers could work with it too, since I wasn't likely to be able to persuade her not to keep helping with the investigation now that she was sure there was something to investigate. Bringing a Vampire Slayer to a club whose clientele was evenly divided between humans and demons could go wrong about a thousand different ways, but it could also be just the thing to make the culprit tip his hand.

"So you're telling me that this speakeasy where humans pay to get in by donating bottles of their blood is what's been keeping the demon population in Hell's Kitchen quiet the entire time I've been the Slayer?" she asked as we navigated the tunnels leading to the club's entrance.

"The rules are very strict. If the boss finds out about anyone breaking them, they're out. No exceptions."

"The boss who could be the one who's after me?"

"The club's been operating for years with no problems, but that's only going to last until the vampire in charge gets bored of his slick mobster schtick, and he doesn't exactly have a long attention span. He might have decided that trying to hunt down a Slayer without jeopardizing the club is an exciting challenge. Or he might just see you as a threat to his business. He's pretty sure you're the reason one of his employees and a few of his vampire regulars haven't been seen in a while, and the fact that you just killed one of his fighters isn't going to make him happier about it. But this just doesn't seem like his style, so while I do hope to get some information out of him, I don't expect him to be our culprit."

"Well, the way I find vampires is usually catching them in the act of attacking people in alleys around Hell's Kitchen, so if I've killed any of his, they were already breaking the rules."

"That's good," I said.

"What about that entrance fee? You don't expect me to pay it, do you?"

"You only have to do that if you go in through the Starlight Cinema entrance."

"Why's that?"

"The assumption is that any human coming in the back way already has an arrangement with the vampire who told them about the club."

"A blood drinking arrangement, you mean," she said flatly. "What if I'd rather go in through the Starlight Cinema than have anyone assuming that?"

"That's up to you, but you should know that as a Slayer, your blood would give you away in a second to every vampire in there. Whether you like the implications or not, going in through the back as my date is the best way to keep your identity hidden."

"That's the second time you've used the word 'date,'" she said.

"I can stop if you'd like," I said. She glanced away, but not before I saw the corner of her mouth twitch upward. "But I'm feeling more confident in this kind of smooth talking now that you've decided to trust me."

"What makes you think I've decided anything?"

"Because if you still thought I meant you or anyone you care about any harm, you wouldn't be going with me into a juice joint swarming with vampires based only on what I've told you about the place."

She stopped walking and faced me squarely. "I'll admit you've convinced me the soul has done you some good, but just because I can trust that you don't want me dead, don't think you'll be able to seduce me."

"Seduction implies that any feelings would be one-sided," I said. "So in our situation, it's already impossible." I held her gaze for a few seconds before continuing to walk up the tunnel.

We reached the outer door of the club a minute or two later. "Edith's tea and cakes," I told Harvey through the slat. He grunted and swung the door open for us. He must've been in a good mood, because he didn't give me any trouble this time. We deposited our coats and hats in the little antechamber before stepping into the club itself.

"Well," said Miss Summers, "I don't know what I was expecting." Since it was a Friday night, the club was far busier than it had been when I brought Doyle. The vocalist was a red-skinned demon named Sweet, who was currently singing a smooth blues number. I could see Spike and Drusilla dancing near the stage amid a crowd of other couples. They all seemed to be enjoying themselves immensely. That would work to Miss Summers' and my advantage.

Faith was behind the bar again, so I headed for her first. When she spotted Miss Summers, she gave me an amused smirk. "I've never seen you bring someone in here. Judging from the fancy suit, you must _really_ be trying to impress her."

"We're working a case together," said Miss Summers.

"Doesn't make him look any less good in that suit," said Faith.

"How's Wood doing in the fights?" I asked to spare Miss Summers further teasing. For now, at least.

"Still undefeated," said Faith proudly. "He'd take on the demon ring if it wasn't against the rules. Oh, and you forgot to pick up your winnings from the fight against Finn."

"Finn?" said Miss Summers sharply as Faith pulled an envelope from beneath the bar and passed it to me. "Sergeant Riley Finn?"

"Uh, yeah," said Faith, bemused.

Miss Summers rounded on me. "You knew my ex-fiancé was a fighter here and you didn't tell me? Was that another thing that 'didn't come to mind'?"

"I didn't know the name of the new fighter," I said. "Between working your case and helping Doyle, I haven't had time to watch the fights."

"You must've really broke the guy's heart, sister," said Faith. "He's only won one out of three fights so far and spent most of the downtime getting zozzled, and he's been pretty cuddly with a couple different vamp girls too."

Miss Summers stood there frozen for a few seconds, taking in Faith's words. "Um," she said, her voice a little shaky. "Where are your facilities?"

Faith pointed to the pair of doors next to the tunnel entrance.

"I'll be back in a minute," Miss Summers muttered.

"Damn, that's rough," said Faith.

I agreed. "Has Finn been leaving envelopes in the club for someone else to pick up?" I asked.

"Not that I've seen. Why?"

"We're trying to find out who's been leaving instructions and cash for a gang of vampires. One of them was a fighter from the demon ring. Dirk, I think?"

"Oh, yeah. He and his buddies would always sit at that table," said Faith, pointing.

I walked over to the table and looked beneath it. There was nothing there but a fragment of tape. I went back to the bar. "Definitely the drop site. Ever see Finn hanging around that table?"

"I don't think so," said Faith.

"He here tonight?" I asked.

"Think I saw him earlier," said Faith. She craned her neck to see over the crowd. "He's not at his usual table."

"Angelus!" The song had ended, and Spike was making his way over. Thankfully, without Drusilla, who was still on the dance floor, doing a very strange solo dance with her eyes closed. "Who'd you have to kill for a suit like that? Or are you going to try to tell me you could afford it on your sorry gumshoe salary?"

"Got it as a favor," I said. "Dirk's dead."

The humor drained from Spike's expression. "Why's that?"

"He and his buddies got on the wrong side of the case I've been working. Someone was paying them to kidnap a girl from the Upper East Side, and they were using this club for the drops. You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"

Spike made an annoyed sound. "All I know is I told Dirk I wouldn't pay him for his fights until he broke his losing streak. S'pose that could've made him desperate."

"What about Finn?" I asked. "How'd he find the club?"

"Ford brought him here as an alternative to booking him for public drunkenness. When he's real deep in his cups, sometimes he mumbles about the girl who dropped him. I've seen him staring at the ring she gave back to him until he passed out." He took a long pull on his cigar. "Can't say I blame her, to be honest."

"Is Ford around tonight?"

"He said he had the night shift at the precinct for the next few nights."

"Heard anything else about the Slayer?"

"Not yet, but it's only a matter of time before she hears about me or this place and comes looking to stir up trouble. All I have to do is wait."

Well, that seemed to confirm that neither Spike nor Sergeant Finn was the man I was after. Just in case, I still wanted to talk to Ford. As a cop, he might've paid more attention to Dirk and his crew than Spike or Faith had.

Spike slapped the bar and turned to Faith. "Couple of Secondhand Gin Rickeys for me and the lady?"

"Coming right up, boss," she said. A Secondhand Gin Rickey was really just a tumbler of blood Fred had drawn from someone while they were drunk. A lot of vampires preferred getting their alcohol that way, and Spike claimed that giving the stuff a fancy name enabled him to charge more for it. Faith slid the freshly poured drinks across the bar to him. Spike raised one to me as he turned to head back to Drusilla.

I headed over to the restrooms and knocked on the ladies' door. "Miss Summers? Is everything alright?"

There was no answer. I looked around, trying not to panic. I couldn't see her anywhere, but when I strained my ears, I heard raised voices coming from one of the card rooms. A couple of the other vampires in the club had noticed as well, and were shooting puzzled looks at the door. I went through it and found Miss Summers and a tall, muscular blond man shouting at each other across the empty card table. The man reeked of gin and his face was covered in half-healed bruises. Neither of them noticed my arrival.

"Why the hell does it matter to you what I do with my life if you aren't going to be sharing it?" he demanded.

"Just because I don't want to marry you doesn't mean I want you to drink yourself to death!"

"Oh, imagine that, not wanting someone to die young. What could that _possibly_ be like?"

"I didn't choose this!"

"Well you didn't choose me either!"

"I'm so sorry I didn't realize going into the relationship that you expected my whole life to revolve around you!"

"I'm sorry your parents gave you such a terrible example of marriage that you didn't know how it was supposed to work! If I'd known what you were from the start, I wouldn't have wasted my time."

"Pardon the interruption," I said, somehow managing to keep my tone polite, even though a vivid fantasy of seizing Finn around the head and snapping his neck was playing in front of my eyes. They both rounded on me.

"This is a private conversation," said Finn tersely.

"Yeah, except that you're having it next to a club full of vampires. They can hear you." I looked at Miss Summers. "The lead was a dead end. There's a cop I want to ask some questions, but unless you want to hang around for the music, I think we're done here."

"Sure, let's go," she said.

"Wait a second, who do you think you are?" said Finn.

"He's my _date_ ," said Miss Summers. Finn's face went from red to purple.

"You didn't happen to oppose the 19th amendment by any chance, did you?" I asked offhandedly.

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"Nothing at all," I said.

Miss Summers and I turned to leave, but Finn was clearly going to try to make this difficult. "We weren't finished yet, Elizabeth," he said. His hand shot out to seize her by the arm, but I spun around and popped him on the nose before he could lay a finger on her. He staggered backward, clutching his face, blood dripping around his fingers.

"Yes you were," I said. I held out my arm, Miss Summers wrapped hers around it, and we left the room.

* * *

More '20s flirting! Is it just my imagination, or was flirting way sexier in the '20s? I need to go curl up with hot chocolate and a Humphrey Bogart movie to test this theory. Anyway, I really like Buffy and Angel's conversation about how soullessness is a lot like being rich and full of ennui. I wasn't expecting to incorporate Great Gatsby themes into this (mostly because I kind of hate that book), but there we go.

Also, I came up with the Secondhand Gin Rickey idea after I discovered that Bloody Marys weren't a thing until the '60s. I'm very glad I made that discovery.


	7. Chapter VII

VII

I should've felt better about the case now that all the vampires were dust and I'd crossed a few suspects off the list, but I didn't. After taking Miss Summers back to Spellbound and advising her to keep her head down until we knew who was after her, I stopped by the precinct to talk to Officer Fordham. The desk sergeant said he was out on a beat, but wouldn't give me any information beyond that. The Finch case had kept me busy uptown for so long that my police contacts had eroded, and I wasn't looking forward to building those back up. I didn't want to stop for the night until I had something more solid, so I went back to my office and started working on another batch of sketches to show the Harris kid. I was just finishing up the drawing of Dirk when my phone rang. I checked the clock. Who would call at four in the morning?

I picked up the earpiece and pulled the receiver closer to my mouth. "Hello?"

 _"This Angelus?"_

"Yeah."

 _"It's Danny Osbourne."_

I sat up straighter in my chair. "Is Miss Chase alright?" I asked.

 _"She passed out not long after you and Miss Summers left. It's not the first time that's happened to someone at one of these parties, but it seemed like a weird coincidence that it would happen to her in particular. I went poking around the penthouse once the band was packing up to leave, and I found her sleeping in her room. I don't think anything happened."_

I relaxed a little. "Thanks for letting me know."

 _"You're welcome."_

I hung up the phone, trying not to feel disappointed. It was much easier to feel guilty. I probably shouldn't have dumped the news that her father had attempted to murder her boyfriend on her so bluntly. I finished up the last sketch and left to go find Harris. I caught him just as he was leaving the newspaper office with his morning haul of papers.

"Jeez, can you stop creeping up on me out of nowhere?" he said when I grabbed one of his handlebars to prevent him riding off.

"Miss Summers and I killed these five vampires a few hours ago. Who do you recognize?"

He took the sketches and thumbed through them in the light of the streetlamp. He handed back Dirk and the second pair we'd staked, but held onto the first pair. "These two are the only ones I didn't see."

"Any you did see that we haven't killed yet?"

"Not that I recall."

"Keep an eye out anyway. Whoever hired these guys is still out there. Anything you see or overhear could be the key to identifying him before he gets another shot at Miss Summers." I held out the twenty I'd won from betting on Wood.

He batted my hand away. "You don't have to pay me to help keep Miss Summers safe."

"When Mrs. Summers hired you, did it seem like she already had a reason to suspect her daughter might be in danger, or did she just want to spy on her?"

Harris frowned for a second. "Now that you mention it, she did seem worried. And she was wearing the sort of clothes a lady would wear if she didn't want anyone to pay attention to her."

"Big hat, cheap coat?" I suggested, remembering how she'd been dressed when she hired me.

"Yeah. The shoes and the jewelry still gave her away, though. She told me to call her as soon as I saw anything unusual. I didn't really think about it at the time—too distracted by the hundred dollar bill she slapped into my hand—but she seemed pretty sure there would be something for me to see."

"I think I'm going to need to have another word with Mrs. Summers," I said, and I turned to go.

"Hey!" he called after me. I paused. "Can you tell me how it goes?" I raised an eyebrow at him. "What? This is like living in an Agatha Christie. I gotta know how it ends!"

†

I waited until nine o'clock before picking up the phone and giving the operator the number Mrs. Summers had given me. It rang for a while before someone picked up once the call connected. _"Hello?"_ said a slightly irritated female voice.

"Is this Mrs. Summers?" I asked.

 _"Yes. Who is this?"_

"Angelus. I was hoping we could meet to discuss your account."

 _"Why? I thought the way this worked was that you would do your job and then I'd pay you afterward."_

Now that was interesting. Why would she assume the case wasn't already solved? My gut had been telling me all along that she knew more than she was saying; this seemed to confirm it. How I reacted would determine whether or not she shared any of that information with me.

"It is," I said.

 _"What?"_ she said. She sounded skeptical. _"How can you be sure?"_

"When can we meet?"

She exhaled loudly into the receiver. _"I suppose I could make it over to your office this afternoon."_

"Swell," I said. Feigning blissful ignorance of her mood was perhaps more entertaining than it should have been. "What time should I expect you?"

 _"I don't know exactly. Sometime between two and four."_

"Very well, but if I'm with another client when you arrive, you might have to wait." I should be so lucky; my only other client at the moment was Doyle. But if Mrs. Summers thought I was busier than that and ready to move on from her case, it might help her feel anxious enough to drop more clues.

 _"Thank you for your time,"_ she said acidly.

I had barely set the earpiece back in the cradle when the phone rang. Thinking it might be Mrs. Summers calling back to give me a piece of her mind, I picked it up without much enthusiasm. "Hello?"

"Mr. Carter!" said the eager voice on the other end. "You're still expecting my Cordelia for that audition at one o'clock, aren't you?"

"Of course, Mrs. Chase," I said. Apparently Miss Chase had decided to skip the part where she scheduled the audition with me first. Even though I wasn't expecting it, I had to admit that using her mother as unwitting corroboration would likely make it a much stronger alibi if her father asked questions. "She'll have to come alone. I have some costumes and set pieces with me for the film that I'm trying to keep under wraps."

I could almost hear Mrs. Chase's pout. "Well, if you insist. She's doing voice exercises right now. She's very excited to work with you. Do feel free to drop by whenever you'd like to discuss your business, even if she isn't available." Judging from her tone, what she was imagining wouldn't involve much discussion. I bade her as polite a farewell as I could muster. I wondered what she'd do if she knew the young producer she was trying to flirt with was actually older than anyone she'd ever met. Then again, judging by the age of her husband, it might only make her try even harder.

Miss Chase arrived a quarter of an hour before one. Doyle was thrilled to see her, but though she greeted him with a heartfelt kiss and fussed over his injuries for a few minutes, it quickly became apparent that she had a larger agenda than visiting her boyfriend. I was trying to discreetly head up to my office so they could have some privacy in my living room when she said, "Not so fast, Mister." I turned around. She was standing up next to the couch, hands on hips.

"Uh, Cordelia, I don't think Angelus really needs to hang around," said Doyle.

"Yes he does!" she said, swatting away the hand he was using to try and pull her back down to the couch.

"What can I help you with?" I asked.

"Oh, I'll tell you what you can help me with. I want to hire you to investigate Betty Summers, because I think she's trying to kill me!"

"What?" Doyle and I said in unison.

"Why would you think that?" I said.

"Because ten minutes after she handed me that wine glass, everything went all black! And there I was thinking she was being nice. I woke up this morning in my bed, still wearing my dress, which is _completely_ crumpled, and I'll never be able to wear that feathered headband again."

"That must've been what Dirk was talking about," I said.

"Who's Dirk?" said Miss Chase.

"A dead vampire," said Doyle.

"He and his buddies tried to kidnap Miss Summers last night, and they were expecting her to be losing consciousness by the time they caught up to her. The drugged wine was meant for her, not you." And the person responsible definitely didn't know much about Slayers, or the dose would've been enough to do much worse to Miss Chase than merely knock her out.

"Well then why did she give it to me?" Miss Chase demanded.

"You were upset and she didn't know it was drugged."

She frowned, looking from me to Doyle, then back again, the anger melting off her face. "You're serious. Someone's really going after her?"

"Yeah."

"Then there's _more_ going on than just Daddy trying to have Doyle killed?"

"I've been working Miss Summers' case since Tuesday."

She bit her lip, clutching Doyle's hand tightly. "In that case, could I hire you to see if anything's wrong with my friend Ginny? Virginia Bryce, I mean. We always go for lunch on Saturdays, but she didn't show up today, and she hasn't called. She's never missed it before."

I didn't want to tell her she probably had nothing to worry about—not when she'd just helped me realize something crucial about Miss Summers' case. So I didn't. "What can you tell me about her?"

†

Miss Chase was gone before Mrs. Summers arrived, much to Doyle's disappointment, but she hadn't left without making plans for additional auditions and acting contract meetings so that she could keep seeing him until I found out more about what her father was up to and had looked into Miss Bryce's situation.

Mrs. Summers sat down in the same chair in front of my desk as she had on Tuesday. She was as bad as usual at blending in, still with cheap outerwear against expensive pearls. "I'm here," she said, "now what makes you so sure you've solved the case?"

I spread the eight sketches on the desk in front of her. "These are the vampires Mr. Harris overheard plotting to attack Miss Summers. They're all dust."

She stared at the sketches, her gloved fingers twisting the straps of her handbag. I waited for her to speak. "How can you be sure that's the end of it? What if they're working for someone?"

"Like who?" I asked.

She resumed the twisting of the handbag straps. If she kept it up, she was going to need to buy a new one.

"Mrs. Summers, what can you tell me about this woman?" I pulled out a ninth sketch—one I'd done in the half-hour since Miss Chase's departure—and placed it directly in front of her on the desk.

She recoiled slightly and her expression filled with hatred. "What does Catherine Madison have to do with any of this?"

"Everything, potentially. You see, Miss Summers and I attended the Chases' soirée last night. Miss Chase passed out after drinking a glass of wine intended for your daughter. If I were to investigate the other guests to see if any of them had a reason to try drugging Miss Summers, I'd start with people who already have unpleasant history with her." I tapped the sketch. "Her father's mistress would be at the top of that list."

I watched Mrs. Summers carefully as I said this. She refused to meet my gaze, but stared resolutely at the sketch. "Mrs. Summers, is there a reason you won't tell me more? Is it more important than Miss Summers' life?"

At last, she looked at me, her expression strained. "I've told you everything I can," she said, clutching at her pearls.

I narrowed my eyes. "But not everything you know?"

She shook her head very slowly, staring at me with wide eyes. The amount of pressure she was putting on those pearls should have snapped the string they were on. I noticed that the skin where pearls lay was scarred, as though from recently healed burns.

She wasn't staying silent by choice. Someone was trying to keep her from talking, and she'd found a way to outsmart them just enough for a detective to do the rest.

I nodded once at her.

Relief flashed over her face. "Thank you."

†

I slept the last few daylight hours away and was woken up by Doyle at sunset. "Miss Summers called about an hour ago," he said. "Said she wants you to tell her anything you've found out since last night, and that she'll be patrolling Central Park up to 72nd Street if you're planning on working the case more."

I let out something between a groan and a chuckle. "That girl has more moxie than all the fighters in Spike's ring; of course she wasn't going to lie low." I dressed quickly. "I'll catch up with her after I find Ford and check on Virginia Bryce. If I'm right, then Miss Summers' case will closed before dawn."

"Then you're actually going to investigate Miss Bryce? I thought you were just trying to placate Cordelia. I didn't think it was a real priority."

"She's paying me to treat it like one. And even if nothing comes of it, it's still useful," I said, now tying my tie while looking for my shoes. "Mr. Bryce is friends with Mr. Chase and Mr. Summers, so it'll give me good reason to question both of them about the other two cases."

†

The same grumpy desk sergeant was on duty when I returned to the precinct. He gave me a baleful look over the top of his newspaper. "You here about Fordham again?"

"I am," I said. "He could be a key witness in my investigation."

"Well you won't find him here tonight."

"Any chance I could persuade you to share his beat route with me this time?"

"Even if there was, it wouldn't matter anymore. He was promoted to detective today."

Judging by the man's tone, he didn't approve of the promotion. "You don't seem that happy for him."

"Well, I won't be buying him a gift basket, that's for sure."

"Does he not deserve it?"

"He's missed one in every ten shifts and it was a miracle if he showed up to all of his checkpoints on a beat. You tell me if that sounds like he deserved a promotion."

"Can't say that it does."

"And now, less than twelve hours with his new badge, they've got him on a high profile missing persons case in the Upper East Side. I got a feeling 'Detective Fordham' won't be of much use to the people here in the Kitchen."

"Isn't the Upper East Side the 10th precinct? What's he doing solving a case there?"

"Hell if I know. I figure it's either he's angling for a transfer or the 10th are too lazy to solve their own cases."

"I'll let you know if I find out which it is."

"You do that," he said indifferently, his attention back on his newspaper.

* * *

I'm really fond of the grumpy desk sergeant. He's not based on any canon characters. And Joyce isn't just a bigoted elitist! Hooray!

Can I get some help bringing "moxie" back into common usage too?


	8. Chapter VIII

VIII

Up until that conversation with the desk sergeant, I had only wanted to talk to Ford on the chance that he'd spotted someone taping envelopes under Dirk's table at the Sunset Club. Everything I'd heard about the man before tonight had suggested that he was just a run-of-the-mill ambitionless dirty cop. But a promotion in spite of a patchy service record suggested the corruption went much higher than him, to someone with money. I was beginning to suspect that Ford could tell me _exactly_ who'd been taping those envelopes under Dirk's table, and he probably knew what had happened to Dirk's sire as well.

What I found when I walked through the parking level beneath the Bryces' building confirmed those suspicions and sparked a new, more disturbing one. A police car was parked near the elevator. Walking past it, I caught the scent of blood on the air. The car was unlocked and the level deserted, so I had a look inside. The smell was coming from a small smear of blood on the floor in the back. It was still wet. A few inches away from it, I found a strand of curly red hair. The front of the car contained documentation that identified the owner as one Bill Fordham. It seemed Miss Chase's worries for her friend hadn't been for nothing after all. What was more, either Ford had his fingers in quite a few pies or the Bryce case and the Summers case were connected.

I took the elevator up to the penthouse. The layout was the same as in the Chases' building, with a private foyer between the elevator and the apartment's actual entrance. The doorman standing outside looked as though he was battling a cold—puffy eyes, red nose. "Good evening, sir," I said.

He jumped to attention, but his lower lip was quivering beneath his walrus mustache. "My apologies. What business do you have with Mr. Bryce?"

I showed him my P.I. license. "A friend of Miss Bryce's hired me to find out why she failed to meet her for lunch today."

At the mention of Miss Bryce, the man's eyes began to well up. "You're not the only investigator to show up. There's a police detective already speaking with Mr. Bryce."

"What's happened?" I asked.

"If only I knew," he said. "Rumors have been flying among the staff all day. All anyone is sure about is that Miss Ginny never came home from the Chases' soirée last night. Mr. Bryce is beside himself."

"Can I see him?"

"He said not to let anyone else in after the police detective arrived, but I don't see the harm. I'd have every investigator in the city on the case if I could. Please, go on in. His office is the second door on the left."

I followed his instructions, moving silently into the penthouse. The décor was similarly lavish to the Chase penthouse, though with quite a bit of Eastern influence and less emphasis on modern technology. As I approached the second door on the left, it became clear that Bryce had had his office built to be as soundproof as possible. No human would have been able to eavesdrop on him, and even I had to strain to make out what he and Ford were saying.

"And you're sure no one saw you?"

"Of course people saw me. I was questioning potential witnesses about a different case. It's a popular spot for dumping bodies."

"Don't get smart with me, Ford. You know what I was asking."

"I got away clean. Which brings us to the matter of my fee."

"For now, your fee is the promotion. You'll get your money when the whole thing is done. We're only a third of the way there. Nothing that's happened so far will matter if the rest doesn't go smooth."

"Hey, don't give me that tone. It's not my fault you decided to start before you had all of the _ingredients_ secured."

"It had to be done on these three nights or it wasn't going to be done at all."

"Yeah, well, I'll leave magic and all its arbitrary rules to you, just so long as it doesn't stop me getting paid." There was a brief pause, then Ford said, "You're not even a little bit sorry your daughter had to die for this?"

"Her mother died at age thirty of an incurable disease that ran in her family. Chances were Ginny had it too. If she was going to die young anyway, better for it to be of use."

"You are one cold S.O.B., you know that?"

"I'm aware. It's why I don't appreciate these repeated debates about your payment."

"Yeah, yeah. I gotta go turn in my report at the precinct." Ford's voice moved closer to the door as he said this last line. I retreated down the hall several paces so that when the door opened it would look like I had just arrived. Ford emerged, then froze at the sight of me.

"Who are you?" he said, eyes narrowed.

"I'm a private investigator," I said, avoiding using my name in case Ford had heard it at the Sunset Club. "Cordelia Chase hired me to look into Virginia Bryce's disappearance. I didn't really expect there to be much of a case to solve, but according to the doorman, Miss Bryce is actually missing."

Mr. Bryce appeared in the doorway of the office. "My daughter _is_ missing," he said, doing an impressive job of looking upset not two minutes after calmly talking about the pragmatism of murdering his only child. It would have been so easy to kill him right there. "Which is why I've already involved the police." With that, he stepped back into his office and shut the door behind him with a snap.

"That's right," said Ford. "So why don't you go find some paranoid Joe who thinks his wife is cheating on him and let me do my job?"

"Oh, well if this is an official NYPD investigation, then I'll gladly step aside," I said pleasantly. "However, because of my work on a different case, I actually have some questions for you, Detective Fordham. Congratulations on the promotion, by the way. In your work at the Sunset Club, you wouldn't happen to have seen anyone leaving packages taped underneath one of the tables, would you?"

"I don't know what you're talking about, and I don't have time for this." He walked closer, but I didn't back down.

"But surely as a respectable detective working the case of a missing girl, you have time to discuss the attempted kidnapping of another girl?" I said.

"Now you listen here, see?" said Ford, jabbing me in the chest. "You P.I.s are a pain in the ass to us real cops. Buncha lone-wolf showoffs. If you were serious about solving crimes, you'd join the force. Don't think I'm going to put my official missing persons investigation on hold to humor some freelancer, and I'll haul you off to the station myself if I catch you sticking your nose in where it doesn't belong."

"Yeah, well this lone-wolf showoff has taken down Mayor Wilkins and his successor in under a year. I'm pretty good at sticking my nose exactly where it needs to be."

Ford's lip curled. "Beat it!"

"Sure thing," I said. "I already got what I came for." I turned around and walked almost all the way to the door before pausing. Ford was still standing there, glaring at me. "Say, Ford, what do you suppose is the going rate for disposing of the body of a rich heiress? I'll let Spike know you've moved on to bigger and better things and won't be going back to the club."

I left before he could get another word in. The doorman was waiting for me in the foyer. "Do you think you'll be able to find Miss Ginny?"

"I know where I'm going to start looking."

†

I probably shouldn't have taunted Ford like that, but I'd been too furious with Mr. Bryce to allow the dirtball working for him to keep feeling so comfortable about it. I made it as far as the parking level before paying the price. When I stepped off the elevator, I found Catherine Madison waiting for me.

"You've been causing me a lot of trouble, Mr. Carter," she said.

"Have I?" I asked. "I'm glad to hear it." I decided not to correct her on my name; if she still thought I was George Carter, then she likely didn't know what I was.

"Then you're a fool. I've seen the future, Mr. Carter. Two years from now, all the prosperity we enjoy will turn to ash. No jobs, not enough food, despair hanging like thick fog in the air. It'll get worse and worse, and it'll stay that way for over a decade, leading to a war that will put even the War to End All Wars to shame. But it can be avoided."

"Well of course," I said dryly. "You murder a few innocent girls, then bada-bing bada-boom, world saved. Can't believe I didn't think of it myself."

"Not murder, _sacrifice_ ," Catherine hissed, her eyes icy slits. "Those girls are precious."

"What does Henry Summers think about your plan to sacrifice his only child?"

"He won't be standing in my way when the time comes. This is the price of saving the world. Do you really expect such a thing to come cheaply?"

"I've met the people who really pay that price. If you genuinely wanted to save the world, you'd be the ones dying for it."

"Well, if you feel that way about it, then I suppose _you_ won't mind dying for it." She held her black-gloved left hand up in front of her and began chanting in Latin. Judging from the words, it was a spell designed to stop a heart. Since mine hasn't beat since 1753, the only effect it had on me was that I felt a vague sort of constricting pressure, but I did my best to act the way a human would upon getting struck by such a spell: clutching my chest, gasping, and collapsing to the ground, after which I lay completely still, my eyes open. In case she had something up her sleeve that actually could kill me, it seemed wiser to let her think she'd won now than tip her off that she needed to change tactics.

She walked up to my prone form and smirked. The elevator door opened behind me and there was a low whistle from its passenger. Next, an arm obscured my vision and fingers pressed against the side of my neck. "You killed the P.I.?" said Ford's voice. The arm vanished from sight.

"I wouldn't have needed to if you'd been doing your job correctly," said Catherine.

"How am I supposed to do that when nobody tells me the girl I'm supposed to bring in is some kind of super-strong freak?"

"I'll admit, Henry's brat has been more trouble than we expected, but that doesn't matter. We have what we need to retrieve her now. Take him and dump him, then meet us over at 57th and Park. We're starting at midnight."

†

An hour later, I was being tossed into the Hudson again. Twice in a single week was a new record. At least this time I wasn't covered in bullet wounds. The cinder block Ford had strapped to my ankles dragged me all the way to the bottom. I wasn't alone down there. I could barely see a couple yards around me, but there were a few other cinder blocks sitting in the silt. Only one of them still had a whole body attached to it. Her curly red hair floated in a cloud around her head. She must've been down there for just a couple of hours. I'd found Miss Bryce.

It was the work of a few moments to free myself from the cinder block. Next, I did the same for the girl and swam for the surface with her body under one arm.

I wasn't surprised to find Charles Gunn waiting for me on the shore.

"Whose bad side did you get on this time?"

"A witch," I said, removing my trenchcoat with difficulty so that I could wring it out.

"What about the girl?"

"Sacrificed in some kind of ritual by her father and the same witch."

Gunn swore under his breath.

Now that we were out of the water, I could see the details of Miss Bryce's appearance more clearly. Her face and arms had been carved with symbols. I didn't recognize them, but hopefully Mr. Giles would. "What time is it?"

"Not much past eight."

"Good," I said. "There's still time. Can you make sure the police find the body? _Different_ police than the one who put her in the river?"

"Course I can."

†

My first stop after the Hudson was my apartment for a dry change of clothes. And a broadsword.

"Have you been swimming?" said Doyle when he saw me.

"Not voluntarily. Virginia Bryce is dead. Miss Chase was more right than she thought. The people who killed her are the same ones after Miss Summers. I have to get to Central Park before their welcoming party catches up to her."

"Need backup?" said Doyle.

"You up for it?" I asked. His condition had improved noticeably, but the bruises on his face were still dark and it seemed highly unlikely that his gut wound had fully healed.

"I suppose we'll find out. In any case, I'll go mad if I stay here much longer. I'm starting to forget what daylight looks like."

†

The prospect of locating Miss Summers in a park as enormous as Central Park before anything unpleasant befell her was a daunting one. Even if she was only going patrolling as far as 72nd Street, that still gave us around half a square mile to search. Since it was after dark but too early in the season for ice skating, there weren't many people around. This made it ideal hunting grounds for vampires because it would be easier to pick off individual pedestrians, so I could see why a Slayer would have it on her patrol route.

Doyle and I came in from the east side. There were no signs of suspicious activity around the menagerie, so we moved on to the pond. Just as we rounded the south end of it, I heard rustling in the trees on the right, then saw a large humanoid shape with glowing green eyes leap from one tree into the next. I took off running in the direction the creature was moving. Doyle followed as silently as possible. The farther we went, the more creatures I spotted in other trees. They all seemed to be moving towards a single point: Heckscher playground. It had just been built the previous year, with swings, slides, see-saws, and jungle gyms surrounding a large outcropping of dark stone. The only person I could see in the area was a young woman whose blonde curls peeked out beneath her cloche hat. Miss Summers.

Without slowing down, I kicked off the trunk of the nearest tree, launching myself high enough into the air to draw level with one of the leaping creatures. At the height of my arc, I drew my sword and swung at its neck, then dropped back to the ground alongside its body and head. It was a reptilian demon, exactly the same as the ones that had stormed my apartment to attack Doyle. Which meant that it wasn't just the Bryce case and the Summers case that were connected. Maybe Doyle hadn't been those demons' sole target that morning. They'd arrived right after Miss Summers; so it was possible they'd followed her and just gone after Doyle because he was closer once they got inside.

Even though I'd just killed one of the demons, there were still nearly a dozen of them converging on Miss Summers. She'd seen and was already fighting two at once. The only weapon she had with her was a stake, but that didn't seem to be a hindrance for her, as she stuck it in the closest demon's eye, then threw the half-blind demon into his lunging fellow, so that he was impaled by the bone sword sprouting from its arm. We were about thirty feet away when five more reached her, and one of them raked its bone sword across her back, causing her to cry out in pain.

I saw red. I was barely conscious of the roar I let out or my features shifting as I plowed through two of the demons, cutting a path so that I could get to her. Doyle was managing to keep up fairly well; I heard a nasty _splorch_ from his side, followed by the garbled shriek of a demon. I risked a glance that way after impaling another demon and saw that he'd head-butted the closest demon with his blue face spikes hard enough to pierce its scales.

"Nice of you to show up!" said Miss Summers. It sounded like she was speaking through gritted teeth.

"Doyle said you wanted updates on the case," I said, my rage subsiding slightly in response to her ability to make sardonic comments in spite of her wound.

"So did you solve it, then?" I heard bones crunch on her side, followed by a screech and a _thump_.

"I might have a lead or two."

"Oh yeah?"

"Catherine Madison is the one who's been after you."

Miss Summers made a noise like an angry cat. "That gold-digging, face-stretching, home-wrecking hussy!" She punctuated the insult with a kick to another demon's solar plexus. It did not get back up.

"She's also a witch," I said.

"Really? Then maybe my father's only with her because she put a spell on him."

"It's possible."

"Well this is a real gas," said Doyle. "But can you two can it until we're not fighting off a load of dagger-fisted lizards?"

"You don't have to participate," said Miss Summers as she forced the next demon to impale itself. That left only three standing, and we finished them off in under a minute. Distant hissing told us more were on their way. Miss Summers stomped her heel hard against the bone dagger protruding from one of the demons' wrists, then picked it up and hurled it in the direction of the sound. She was rewarded by another screech of pain, and a body fell out of the trees.

I saw another coming toward us from the direction of the see-saws, so I ran over and slammed the near end down just as it stepped onto the far end. It catapulted through the air towards Doyle, who skewered it with his sword, only for it to knock him flat with its momentum. Miss Summers started giggling. I wouldn't have though much of it, except that her skin looked pale, with a sheen of sweat over it. The next second, she staggered a little. I ran forward and caught her before she could hit the ground.

"Oh, sure, catch the pretty girl," Doyle grunted, struggling to get free of the dead demon. "Don't mind me, I'm only pinned by two hundred pounds of lizard less than a week after being beaten nearly to death." I sheathed my sword, then caught the leg of the demon under my toe and flipped it off him. He got up, brushing dirt off his coat, although it was already ruined by a large orange bloodstain. "These are the same demons that attacked me on Tuesday," he said, prodding one of them with his foot. "What did they want with the lass?"

"Mr. Chase, Mr. Bryce, and Catherine Madison are all working together. They're going to sacrifice three girls to protect themselves from some economic disaster."

"Those bastards! Then I was only a target because I would've gotten in the way of them sacrificing Cordelia!" said Doyle, angry and horrified. "We have to go save her!"

"We will," I assured him, grabbing his shoulder. "There's still time. The ritual won't start until midnight. I want to talk to Miss Summers' Watcher. He might have learned something about these demons that could help us."

"Why are we juss standing here?" said Miss Summers. Her words were beginning to slur together, and she didn't seem to have heard Doyle or me. "We better start moving our getaway sticks in case there are more of them." She took one step and wobbled again, so I swept her up into my arms. There must have been some kind of poison on those bone swords. She smiled at me in a dazed sort of way. "I could get used to this," she said.

"Used to what?" I asked, trying to focus on following Doyle out of Central Park instead of how good it felt to hold her.

"Having a guardian angel."

I couldn't help returning the smile.

"Oh!" she said. "That's it! I know what we can call you that's like Angelus but not quite. Angel."

"Well I am trying to be one of the good guys, but couldn't a moniker like that be considered a little presumptuous?" I asked.

This (and the continuing effects of the poison) set off another fit of giggles. "Presumptuous?" she said. "Angel, you slay me!" She looked at me with wide, though unfocused eyes, tugging on my lapel. "Get it? _Slay_ me? That was a joke."

"That it was," I agreed, trying not to let on how worried I was. We emerged onto the sidewalk of 59th Street, where Doyle hailed a cab. He slid in first, then helped me settle Miss Summers in the middle, and I brought up the rear, telling the cabbie Spellbound's address.

* * *

You might remember Mr. Bryce and his daughter Virginia from "Guise Will Be Guise." Bryce wanted to sacrifice Virginia to gain power from a demon that vaguely resembled Ursula from The Little Mermaid. Yeah...I feel kinda bad about killing her off.


	9. Chapter IX

IX

"Good God, what happened?" said Mr. Giles when I carried Miss Summers into the shop.

"Ssokay, Giles," she mumbled. "Mmm fine."

"She was swarmed by over a dozen of those demons," I said. "The same kind from my apartment."

"One of them slashed her with the blade sticking out of its arm," said Doyle. "The cut didn't look deep, but she's gone a bit funny."

"Take her upstairs," said Mr. Giles. "Janna, Willow!" he called. The two women came out of a back room, looking alarmed.

"What happened, Rupert?" said Mrs. Giles.

"Buffy's going to need the antidote for the Zrikek demons' poison."

"And bandages," I added.

Mrs. Giles nodded and hurried over to the shelves of potion and spell ingredients. Doyle joined her, asking how he could help.

"Willow, if you would direct Mr. Angelus up to Buffy's room and do what you can for her?" said Mr. Giles.

"Of course." She waved me over to the staircase. "Now I'm really glad I did all that cleaning this week," she said nervously as we made our way up to the second floor and down the hall. "We've never had a man in the apartment before."

Miss Summers giggled feebly again. "Willow's jealous because she's never been able to bring Danny up here, but now here you are."

Miss Rosenberg's cheeks turned a shade of red to rival her hair, but she grinned a bit as she opened the door. "Well maybe I just need to get poisoned by a demon so he has a good reason to come in."

"That is the most scandalous thing you've ever said!" said Miss Summers delightedly.

I cleared my throat. I was stuck at the threshold with Miss Summers in my arms.

Miss Rosenberg's blush faded and she gave me a confused look. "Well?"

"Vampires can't come in without an invitation," I said. "Maybe you should just help her inside."

I made to set Miss Summers back on her feet, but her grip around my neck tightened. "You can come in, Angel," she said.

My eyes snapped back to hers. She still didn't look well, but her gaze was a little more focused and she was blushing again. The poison plainly had not affected her to the extent that she couldn't appreciate the significance of what she'd just said.

The small apartment Miss Summers and Miss Rosenberg shared was a pleasant contrast to the fancy penthouses I'd been in that week. The front door opened directly onto the combined kitchen, dining area, and living room. Though small, it felt very comfortable. The walls were light, the floor and furniture dark. The kitchen table and its two chairs were arranged beneath a large window, and a sofa and armchair were set around a radio and a heavily laden bookcase, which seemed to contain everything from novels and clothing magazines to centuries-old spellbooks.

Not wanting to overstep my bounds, I set Miss Summers down on the sofa.

"Thank you," said Miss Rosenberg, immediately moving to help her wincing roommate out of her coat.

†

Back downstairs, I sought out Mr. Giles. He was poring over several books at a large table towards the back of the shop. Doyle and Mrs. Giles were standing at the other end of the same table, Doyle grinding something up with mortar and pestle, and Mrs. Giles pouring a blue liquid into a large ceramic bowl.

"You found out what the demons are?" I asked Mr. Giles. "Zrikeks, I think you said?"

"Yes," he said. "And you're certain the ones from Wednesday's attack were working for Mr. Chase?" he asked.

"Yes."

"This particular species is extremely devoted to a powerful demonic ruler called Kazaran. They would only do a human's bidding if that human had sworn fealty to Kazaran."

"Well if Mr. Chase swore fealty, he's not the only one. Mr. Bryce and Catherine Madison are involved too. They've already sacrificed Virginia Bryce. Catherine said it was supposed to prevent some kind of global economic disaster that'll happen in the next couple of years."

"Well how noble of them. Any indications of what kind of ritual they performed for the sacrifice?"

"Miss Bryce's face and arms were carved with all kinds of symbols." I pulled a folded paper out of my coat pocket and passed it to him. "I drew them in the cab on the way to find Miss Summers. And I heard Mr. Bryce say that the ritual had to take place on these three nights specifically or it wouldn't work."

"There are a few different rituals associated with Kazaran," said Mr. Giles. "Let's see if we can't narrow it down." He handed me one of his books, and I sat down and started poring over it.

After about ten more minutes, Mrs. Giles and Doyle finished Miss Summers' antidote, Mrs. Giles went upstairs to administer it, and Doyle joined us looking through the books. Miss Rosenberg came downstairs shortly afterward and started flitting around the shelves with such a determined expression that nobody questioned her.

"Here," I said. "I think this might be the one." I handed Mr. Giles back the book. He quickly skimmed over the page.

"I believe you're correct." He grimaced as he kept reading. "How gruesome."

"What's this ritual about?" said Doyle.

"It was devised by a sorcerer in the tenth century," said Mr. Giles. "This year marks the thousandth anniversary of it, which is no doubt why they feel they have to do it now. Someone versed in the black arts performs the ritual, which involves one sacrifice per night on these three nights. The offering is painted with sacred sigils, through which Kazaran himself draws out the person's life energy to consume it. This leaves the sigils engraved in the person's flesh. The offerings must be blood descendants of those hoping to benefit in order for it to do them any good. The first sacrifice gets Kazaran's interest, the second wins his favor, and the third leaves him with enough additional power that he can ensure the beneficiaries find success in all their endeavors for the rest of their lives."

"Then they haven't won Kazaran's favor yet," I said.

"Not with Miss Chase still alive, no," said Mr. Giles. Well that was some of the first good news I'd heard for this case all day.

"So how do we save Cordelia?" said Doyle.

We spent the next half-hour going over the minutiae of how the ritual worked and devising a strategy to put an end to Catherine Madison's plans. About fifteen minutes in, Mrs. Giles came back downstairs with Miss Summers, who had changed into a different dress and coat and looked ready for action again.

"What about my father?" she asked once we'd gotten to the point of ironing out final details for how to stop the ritual. "He's going to side with Catherine as long as he's still under whatever love spell she put on him. He'll probably try to stop us."

"The easiest way to break a love spell is to kill the caster," said Mr. Giles, "though that's hardly a viable option."

"You may have to restrain him," said Mrs. Giles. "If you can bring him here, I can break it."

"Good," said Miss Summers. Then she looked at me. "Can I talk to you for a moment?" she asked.

"Of course," I said.

"Angelus, we don't have much time," said Doyle. I looked at the clock. It was getting close to ten-thirty.

"We'll only be a minute," said Miss Summers. I followed her over to a narrow aisle between bookshelves out of earshot of the others.

"What is it?"

She looked down at her hands, which she was twisting together in an agitated fashion. "I want to apologize for my behavior earlier. The poison made me act completely jazzed, and now I feel like an idiot."

"Really?" I said. "I thought you were charming."

Her head snapped up, eyes wide.

"Don't tell me you've changed your mind about calling me Angel. I've had some time to get used to the idea, and I think I like it."

"Angel," she said. What I hadn't decided yet was whether or not I wanted anyone _else_ to call me that.

"Miss Summers."

"Buffy," she said. Her cheeks were turning red again. "You should call me Buffy."

"Buffy." I raised a hand to cup her blushing cheek and leaned closer. Her eyes drifted closed.

"Hey, Buffy, Mr. Angelus!" came an enthusiastic but entirely unwelcome voice from around the end of the bookshelf. Miss Summers—Buffy jumped away from me and spun around to face Miss Rosenberg, the heat of embarrassment now radiating off her so powerfully that I could still feel it even though she was facing the other way. Miss Rosenberg came into view, carrying two leather cords with small pouches dangling from them, oblivious to what she'd just interrupted. "I made scapulars for you to wear, in case that Catherine tries any spells on you."

"Thanks," said Buffy, accepting hers a little more quickly than necessary. She held it up to her face and sniffed. "Hey, this doesn't smell half bad."

"That's something I've been working on," said Miss Rosenberg brightly, handing me mine. We walked back over to where Doyle and the Gileses were.

"You're all clear on what you need to do?" said Mr. Giles. Buffy, Doyle, and I nodded. "Good. We'll do our part from here. Just remember that the timing is essential."

He handed Miss Summers a sword while Mrs. Giles gave Doyle a bag slightly larger than his fist.

"I think this might just work," said Doyle. "You people really know your onions."

"It's been a pleasure working with you, Mr. Doyle," said Mrs. Giles, shaking his hand.

"Let's go," I said.

†

I wasn't surprised that the first obstacle between us and Miss Chase when we arrived at 57th and Park was Detective Bill Fordham. He, on the other hand, was very surprised to see me when I approached him alone. I managed to get about five feet from him where he was standing guard on the parking level of the building with the Chase penthouse before he noticed me, and he nearly jumped out of his skin.

"You were dead!" he said, whipping out his gun.

I smirked. "Been dead since 1753. I had a nice swim tonight, though. Bumped into Miss Bryce."

The color drained out of his face. Without further ado, I punched him hard enough in the face to knock him off his feet. Buffy and Doyle hurried to join me as I used his handcuffs to secure him to the tail end of his car.

"You said you were going to talk to him," said Doyle.

"I did," I said. "And then I knocked him out."

"Come on," said Buffy, though she looked amused.

We took the elevator to the top floor with no trouble, but that was because the trouble was waiting for us outside the penthouse, in the form of four burly guards. I was pretty sure I'd seen at least one of them doing business with Tony Papasian's men.

I grabbed Buffy by the arm. Unsurprisingly, she tried to jerk away, but I held on tight and put on my best sleazy gangster accent. "Hey, which one of yous do I talk to about a delivery for Mr. Chase?"

Understanding flashed in Buffy's eyes while bewilderment flashed in the eyes of the goons. "Get off me, you creep!" said Buffy. "Do you know who I am?"

"Uh, Mr. Chase wasn't expecting any delivery," said Goon 1.

"Yeah, so you better scram unless you want a beating," said Goon 2.

Goon 3, who had an unpleasant leer on his dull face, pushed the first two aside and stepped forward. "Now, now, I'm sure we can sort out this misunderstanding. I'll take her in to see him."

"Look," I said angrily, with Buffy continuing to pretend to struggle against my grip, "my boy and I went to a lotta trouble to grab this little sheba, and we're not just gonna let someone else get the credit for bringing her in. I'm not letting go of her until I'm holding the sack of dough Mr. Chase promised."

The goons exchanged uncertain glances. Doyle stepped forward. "Why doesn't one of you fine lads just take us in to see the boss before we waste any more of each other's time?"

Goon 2 narrowed his eyes at the sound of Doyle's heavy Irish brogue, but Goon 4 was plainly tired of this exchange and took the initiative before any of his colleagues could speak. "Right this way," he said.

We followed him through the door, Buffy pretending to try to kick me in the shins. He led us down the hall and across the parlor in the direction of the veranda. There were no traces at all of the raucous party that had taken place the night before. However, before we could get close enough to see the French doors that opened onto the roof, a white staff whipped out of a doorway and cracked down onto Goon 4's skull. He dropped like a stone, and a Zrikek stepped into view. Unlike the many we had killed, this one was larger, its scales were white, and it wore deep purple robes. It also didn't appear to have the bone swords protruding from its wrist, which would explain its need for a staff. "Any who dares to trespass on the Ritual of Kazaran shall die for his glory," it said in a hissing voice.

"Yeah, well I'm already slated to die for his glory," said Buffy irritably.

Its eyes glowed brighter as turned its attention to her. "The third sacrifice. You are not needed until tomorrow night."

"Oh, I think I'm needed now," she said, and she lunged forward with her sword. The Zrikek dodged the blade, hissing angrily. It swung at her with the staff, but she dodged as well. Doyle came in swinging next, and I tried to use that as a distraction so that I could get behind it, but it used the staff to send Doyle crashing into one wall and its tail to hurl me into another. This, at least, helped Buffy to decide how to attack next. She swung her sword directly at the tail in the split second after it threw me and was still extended. The demon shrieked, its blood spattering onto the Persian rug. Buffy hadn't completely severed the tail, but it now dangled uselessly, only hanging on by about an inch of muscle and scales. It wouldn't be able to attack with it again.

In retaliation, the demon slammed the butt of the staff into Buffy's ribs. I heard something crack, and she collapsed to the ground, gasping. It towered over her, about to swing the staff at her head, but she kicked out viciously at its right ankle. I heard a much louder crack, and it fell in a sprawl just as I regained my footing. I brought my own sword down at its neck, then stepped over its twitching body to help Buffy up while Doyle checked the surrounding rooms for any more surprise Zrikeks. "We're clear," he said. "I very much hope that was the last of those things."

"Are you okay?" I asked Buffy. "I heard your ribs crack."

"I don't think they broke all the way through," she said through a wince. "I'll be fine, at least until the adrenaline rush wears off."

We continued on. The French doors to the veranda glowed with ominous purple light as we approached them. I checked my watch. It was 12:03. The ritual had already begun.

†

Doyle ran through the doors before Buffy or I could take another step. "Cordelia!" he yelled. We ran after him. Catherine Madison stood at the center of the veranda, in front of a long table to which Cordelia Chase was securely tied. She'd been painted with the same sigils I'd seen on Virginia Bryce's corpse, and she was plainly trying to scream despite being gagged. Tall black candles were arranged in three concentric circles around them, producing tall violet flames, which explained the glow from inside the doors. There were three robed figures there, each standing outside one of the circles. At Doyle's shout, all three of them unsheathed daggers and ran from the circles to intercept us.

Catherine Madison didn't pause what she was doing. "Kazaran, come forth to claim this offering!" she cried, arms in the air. Abruptly, the building beneath us began to shake. A beam of what looked like green lightning exploded from a single candle on the stage where Johnny and the Dingoes had played.

The hoods of the robed figures all fell backward as they ran, revealing Mr. Bryce, Mr. Chase, and Mr. Summers.

"You can't stop us!" snarled Mr. Bryce. "What we're doing will save the world!"

"I know all about your ritual," I said with contempt. "All it does is benefit you, not change the future, so you can stow the King Agamemnon crap."

"Irish scum," Mr. Chase spat at Doyle. "I should've killed you myself when I found you with my daughter."

"Come on now," said Doyle, blocking Mr. Chase's dagger with his sword. "I'm only half-Irish, and it's fairly plain to everyone present that you care far more about your bank account than your daughter."

Mr. Chase attempted to punch Doyle in the face, but Doyle chose that moment to transform into his demonic visage, so all Mr. Chase got was a fistful of very sharp blue spikes. He drew back with a shout of pain. "That's the other half," said Doyle.

"Daddy, please!" said Miss Summers. "You can walk away from this! You don't have to listen to what Catherine wants." His only response was to lunge with the dagger. She dodged, caught his fist, and elbowed him in the face, looking devastated.

Mr. Bryce swung at me with his dagger. When I tried to block it, my sword went right through it, causing me to overbalance and stumble. A second Mr. Bryce appeared out of nowhere and slammed his very real dagger all the way to the hilt into my chest. It didn't exactly tickle, but it certainly wasn't the fatal blow he'd intended. I stood up straight again, looking down at the handle of the dagger, then back at Mr. Bryce. The first Mr. Bryce flickered and vanished. "So, you're an illusionist? Neat trick."

His triumphant expression faltered, then turned to horror when I pulled the dagger back out, my face transforming so that I could give him a fanged grin. Then I slammed the hilt of my sword against the side of his head. He crumpled to the ground.

By the time Buffy, Doyle, and I had subdued our opponents, the green lightning Catherine had summoned had become a hell of a lot more active. Claws, each one as big as my arm, appeared in the middle of the green lightning and parted it like a curtain. If the white Zrikek had been larger than its fellows, it was still puny compared to what emerged. It was easy to see how a demon like Kazaran could attract a devout following. He was twelve feet tall, with silver scales and eyes that glowed gold. White feathers grew from his head like a lion's mane, and his armor was like a cross between a samurai and a centurion. He wielded a staff that looked like it had been made from an entire sapling, and a plume of purple fire danced from the top of it. Once he stepped all the way through the lightning portal, all of the candles died down, making the veranda much darker.

Doyle, completely disregarding the enormous demon that had just clawed his way through a portal, grabbed Mr. Chase's dagger and ran straight for the table where Miss Chase was tied. He pulled out the bag Mrs. Giles had given him, opened the string, and threw the contents all over Miss Chase. It was nothing but a large quantity of the exact same paint-like potion the ritual required for the sigils to mark the offering. The result was that she was now drenched in the stuff, and the sigils had been ruined. So far, everything was going according to plan.

"What have you done?!" Catherine shrieked. Furious, she held her hand up to cast the same spell on Doyle that she had cast on me, but he, too, had received a protective scapular from Miss Rosenberg. The small pouch flashed as the spell collided with it, then bounced off, hitting Kazaran instead. All this seemed to accomplish was to make him angry. His eyes flared brighter gold, and he turned his triangular head towards Doyle.

Buffy reached Catherine just after she tried cursing Doyle and socked her so hard on the jaw that she spun around in a full circle. I didn't have the luxury of watching that fight, however. I ran forward and leapt onto the stage to get to Kazaran. The highest part of him I could easily reach was his midriff, so that's where I aimed my sword. The blade broke off at the hilt on making contact with his scales. He looked down at me, baring his fangs. That had definitely _not_ been part of the plan.

"YOU MORTALS SUMMONED ME HERE TO ATTEMPT TO MURDER ME?" he said in thunderous tones. "YOU HAVE NOT EVEN BROUGHT ME AN OFFERING!"

"No!" Catherine cried, scrambling up from the ground while Buffy was busy helping Doyle release the paint-drenched Miss Chase from her restraints. Blood streamed from both of Catherine's nostrils. "The girl is the offering! We wish only to serve you. This filth is not affiliated with us!"

"FOOL OF A WITCH! KAZARAN WILL TOLERATE NO TREACHERY. YOU SHALL BE PUNISHED!" With one clawed hand, he batted me aside as easily as if I'd been made of straw, then strode towards Catherine. Buffy and Doyle finished cutting the ropes away from Miss Chase's wrists and ankles just in time to pull her out of the way of Kazaran's foot, which came down against the table a second later, buckling it instantly beneath his weight.

The four of us stared in horror as Kazaran swung his staff down at Catherine. The purple flames on the end of it seemed to deliberately reach for her as though they actually hungered for flesh. In less than a second, they covered her from head to toe. She screamed in agony, and Mr. Summers yelled in dismay. Kazaran, on the other hand, had lost all interest in the proceedings. In six rumbling steps, he returned to the stage and the green lightning portal, which closed behind him without a trace.

Before they could get up to any more mischief, I hurried back over to Mr. Bryce and Mr. Chase and bound their hands behind their backs with some of the rope I'd brought. Next, I headed back into the penthouse to call the police.

When I returned to the veranda a minute later, Miss Chase, now free of her gag, was screaming some fairly colorful obscenities at her father. Doyle stood a couple of feet away from her, fighting to keep his expression serious.

I walked over to Miss Summers and her father. They were embracing. For a split-second, it seemed that all was well between them, but then something silver flashed in the air, and I realized what Mr. Summers was about to do. "Buffy, look out!"

She was able to wrench herself free of he hug in time to catch the hand that was about to drive a dagger through her back. "Daddy?" she said in disbelief. "What are you doing? Hasn't—hasn't Catherine's spell broken?"

"What spell?" he said. I was close enough now to relieve him of the dagger. Buffy let go of his arm, but she didn't stop staring at him.

"The love spell that made you do what she wanted. The spell that made you willing to kill your own daughter."

His expression was as cold as Mr. Bryce's voice had been when I overheard him speaking to Ford in his office. "You haven't been my daughter since you started fighting monsters for that limey S.O.B. The ritual was my idea, not Catherine's. I had to convince her we'd be doing it for the greater good."

Buffy made a shrill squeaking noise and covered her mouth with a shaking hand, but Mr. Summers wasn't finished. "You might have stopped what we were trying to do here, but Bryce and Chase aren't the only friends I've made since this Slayer malarkey opened my eyes to the occult. They won't be happy."

I'd had enough. "I don't think they're the ones you should be thinking about right now," I growled, placing a hand on Buffy's shoulder and letting my features transform again. He took an involuntary step backward. "You should be thinking about how lucky you are that I've decided to hand you over to the police when I could be having you for dinner." I tied him up like the other two and tossed him down next to them. Miss Chase had ceased her shouting in favor of going inside to clean all the ritual paint off of herself with a long shower.

The cops arrived. They'd already subdued and cuffed Goons 1-3 on their way inside. Apparently the idiots had tried to use force to keep them out, and it hadn't gone well for them. Goon 1 had a split lip and Goon 3 had a black eye. At least one cop was aware of the supernatural, because he didn't look as bewildered as his fellow officers when he stepped over the white-scaled Zrikek on the way to the veranda. I made a mental note of him for the next time I needed to deal with the police on a supernatural case. Detective Trevor Lockley. When the other officers left with six prisoners in tow, he stayed to take statements from me, Buffy, Doyle, and Miss Chase while the forensic photographer took picture after picture and the coroner bagged up the bodies of Goon 4 and Catherine Madison.

I tried to speak to Buffy once amid all the bustle of police activity, but she left quickly after giving her statement. I followed her out as soon as I realized she'd gone, only to nearly collide with Mrs. Chase, who had just gotten home from whatever party she'd been attending. Her hysterical reaction to everything that had happened meant that there was no escaping for anyone else for several more hours.

* * *

I had less fun writing the fight scenes than everything else, so hopefully they didn't suck. Buffy and Angel have achieved Buffy/Angel name status! Also, the case is solved. The other thing that inspired this fic, apart from my love for all things film noir, was a conversation I had with Kairos about Hank Summers and how unsatisfying it was that he turned into an absentee father seemingly out of nowhere. She had some cool ideas for some things that could have happened either instead or to explain the dead-beat-ness, and one of those ideas somehow mutated in my mind into Hank being a corrupt rich dude in the '20s whose dirty dealings clashed hard with Buffy's calling as the Slayer. Et voilà! Fic.


	10. Chapter X

X

The following Thursday, I found myself walking into Spellbound just before closing. I didn't have any new cases, but the aftermath of the Summers/Chase/Bryce case had been keeping me busy enough, filling out paper work and giving more official statements to the police and the district attorney. Mr. Bryce would get the chair once convicted of the occult murder of his daughter, but unless Mr. Chase's and Mr. Summers' alibis fell apart for the night of Miss Bryce's death or Catherine Madison and Goon 4's deaths were pinned on them, they would only be convicted of conspiracy to murder Miss Summers and the attempted murder of Miss Chase. All three of them had the best lawyers money could buy, but lawyers could only do so much against a wealth of physical evidence and eyewitness accounts, which included a long and detailed statement from Ford. His NYPD career over, he'd been singing like a canary to keep himself out of prison. None of the friends Mr. Summers had mentioned had made any appearances so far.

Mrs. Giles was checking out the last customer of the evening, but nobody else was there. I waited for the customer to leave, then removed my hat and hesitantly approached the counter. "Bună seara," I said.

She raised an eyebrow. "Bună seara," she replied. "What brings you here?" she asked in Romanian.

"I'm looking for Miss Summers," I said, also in Romanian.

"She went to see her mother on Sunday morning. She's been spending most of her time there ever since. It seems they've had a lot to talk about."

"Does that mean the curse on the necklace is broken?"

Mrs. Giles nodded. "Like most spells, it died with the witch who cast it."

"I'm glad," I said.

She continued to stare at me as silence fell between us. I made a valiant effort not to fidget, wondering if she remembered the death of her cousin as clearly as I did. She cocked her head to the side. "You are not what I would have expected, Angelus. My bunicuţă intended the curse as a punishment for an evil creature. I wonder what she would say if she knew she would be creating a good man."

"I'm not a good man."

"Few good men think they are. What matters is that they try. Never stop trying."

I smiled and switched back to English. "Miss Summers thinks I should go by Angel instead of Angelus."

"Angelus is not who you are now. I think this is good idea. And before you go, you should know that I've spoken to one of the higher-ranking members of the New York City coven. Catherine Madison was banished from their ranks for practicing dark magicks, but she was not wrong when she said hard times are on their way. I do not think these men—Mr. Summers, Mr. Chase, and Mr. Bryce—they will not be the last to turn to evil rituals to save themselves from ruin."

"I'll be sure to stay on my toes," I said, putting my hat back on. "Thanks for the advice."

"What would you like me to tell Buffy when she comes back?" she said, a mischievous gleam in her eyes.

I hesitated, then sighed. "Don't say anything."

"You don't want to see her?"

"I don't want her to feel like she has to see me."

†

I don't know if Mrs. Giles did as I asked, but I was halfway through a Secondhand Gin Rickey at the bar of the Sunset Club when I heard the squeal of the reinforced metal door opening, followed by Harvey's raised voice. Then came the sounds of fists against flesh, and Harvey fell sprawling onto the floor just inside the club proper, unconscious. There was a good crowd tonight—not uncommon on nights when Lorne was on the stage—and the smokey haze was extra thick, so not many people but me noticed. Buffy came into view, stepping daintily over Harvey's prone form, then made a bee-line straight for me. Faith chuckled behind the bar and walked over to help a different customer.

"How are your ribs?" I asked.

"Better. How's your stab wound?" she said as she took the barstool next to mine.

"Better. Why'd you beat up Harvey?"

"He said my password had expired and tried to teach me a lesson instead of just keeping the door shut," she said, apparently torn between amusement and irritation. "It was the same password you said on Friday."

"They change it every week," I said. "It's 'lamb in the blackberry patch' now."

"Ah," she said. "Well, I have something for you."

"Is that so?"

She held up an envelope. I took it, and our fingers brushed, sending a jolt of electricity through me. Judging by the jump in her heart rate, she'd felt it too. The envelope contained a stack of twenty dollar bills. "It's from my mother," she said. "Your fee for solving the case. I offered to deliver it for her."

"Things going better between the two of you?"

"They are. She's a lot braver than I thought. The argument I told you about, the one that made me decide to leave? She started it on purpose, hoping to get me away from my father before he could carry out his plans. Maybe that would've been enough if I'd run a little farther than Hell's Kitchen. She hired you when it was getting close to ritual time with no sign that he'd given up."

"How long has she known?"

"She overheard him and Catherine talking about it a few days before I left. She confronted them, but obviously they didn't back down. The next day, she put on her pearl necklace only to find that she couldn't say a word about my father's plans without it burning her skin, and she couldn't take it off no matter what she tried."

"Are you going to move back in?"

"I don't know," she said. "Mom might not even be able to afford to stay there once the court does whatever it's going to do with my father and his business. She might end up moving in with me after Willow and Danny get married."

"That'll be a big change for her."

"After everything that's happened, I think she's gained a different perspective of the upper class."

"And what about your father?"

She laughed bitterly. "It'd probably be easier if I hadn't spent a couple of hours believing everything I hated about him was down to a love spell. Instead I have to live with the knowledge that not only was he deliberately unfaithful to my mother, but he was going to kill me for the sake of keeping his business intact. I'm still trying to understand how the man who taught me how to ice skate could have turned into that." She sighed. "It's probably harder for Cordelia, though. She lost her best friend and she doesn't have someone else who can be like a father to her, like I do." She took a deep, fortifying breath and looked over her shoulder, her large green eyes slowly taking in all the details of the club. By the time she was looking at me again, she was smiling. "Is it weird if I kind of love this place?"

"Oh, I don't think so," I said, willing to accept a change of subject if it made her happier. "A vampire-run speakeasy that's a safer place for humans than one run by gangsters, with better music and better drinks? It's pretty remarkable."

"Some of the most remarkable things are the ones that should be impossible but happen anyway."

"Things like...a Slayer coming to meet a vampire with a soul after all their business has concluded?" I met her gaze and held it. Over on the stage, the violinist struck the opening chords of a new song. He was joined shortly by the cellist, and Lorne pulled the microphone close. I moved my hand to capture one of Buffy's. "Dance with me?"

 _"Birds may cease to spread their wings  
But it don't matter, but it don't matter  
Winters may envelop spring  
But it don't matter, but it don't matter_

'Cause when I'm with you  
My whole world stands still  
You're my one and only thrill"

We didn't speak this time, even though the slow foxtrot was far simpler than the Charleston we danced at the soirée.

 _"Ships may never leave the dock  
But it don't matter, but it don't matter  
Ticks may never hear a tock  
But it don't matter, but it don't matter_

'Cause when I'm with you  
My whole world stands still  
You're my one and only thrill"

I was only dimly aware of the other couples moving around us. In all my two hundred years, I'd never felt the way I did with her in my arms, looking into her eyes.

 _"Shores may never reach the tide  
But it don't matter, but it don't matter  
Buds may never open wide  
But it don't matter, but it don't matter_

'Cause when I'm with you  
My whole world stands still  
You're my one and only thrill

You're my, you're my  
You're my one and only thrill"

As Lorne's last line and piano notes faded, the violin swelled for the song's final measures. I pulled our joined hands in towards us and dropped hers at my shoulder so that I could cup her face instead. With her arms around my neck, I leaned down, she rocked forward onto her toes, and our lips met.

The End

* * *

Ending on a kiss seemed like the thing to do for this genre. I'm super happy I was able to give Tara, Sweet, and Lorne each chances to sing at the Sunset Club. Lorne's song is another one by Melody Gardot. It was a major pain finding a good song to go with this scene, and I'm not entirely sure I succeeded, but if I'd kept looking until I was completely happy with a song, it would probably have been 2017 by the time I found it.

I had so much fun writing this fic that I'd like to do a sequel, so if you have any ideas for adventures you'd like Angel and Buffy to have in the '20s, do please let me know. All I've got so far is a vague notion about Darla showing up and doing lots of femme fatale things.


End file.
